The Big Rusty Lie

A Bernardo Walterhaus caper From the mind of

Ryan Speck

a curbstomp press publication http://curbstomp.ryanspeck.com

A Curbstomp Press Production Book #001 Compiled, edited, and formatted by Ryan Speck

First complete solo edition – Janurary, 2008 Copyright © 2008 by Ryan Speck. All applicable and available rights reserved. This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. Unless it wasn’t, but I’m sure you’d know the difference. I trust you. No part of this publication, marginal and crappy though it may be, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Ryan Speck and Curbstomp Press. That sounded very professional. I must have lifted it from some boilerplate somewhere.

ISBN-13: 978-0-6151-7836-3 ISBN-10: 0-6151-7836-7

Find out more at http://www.ryanspeck.com/ And check out the Oberwalz Wiki as it is continuously updated at http://www.ryanspeck.com/oberwiki/ Contact Ryan Speck at [email protected]

Interior set in Verdana for no explicable reason.

A Bernardo Walterhaus caper

Sprung from the fertile brain of

Ryan Speck

Mild praise for The Big Rusty Lie: “I was reading through it… and I totally got it. I mean, I bought it hook, line, and sinker. And I suddenly realized just how great it was... and it was REALLY fucking great. The whole thing clicked, and I laughed for like five minutes straight… And it was also, no bullshit, one of the most original plot twists I've ever read in a caper story.” - Brian Luallen, grandmaster literary expert and film aficionado

For Cheria, who puts up with my shit and continues to believe in me even when she has no good reason to do so. Continued thanks for the help of Cathi Miller, Steve Saunders, Mike Bailey, Andy Jenner, and Brian Luallen, who have all, in their own way, kept me working when I should have given up and gotten a real job. (Except Steve, who kept me on the phone for eight months.)

Introduction When I started The Big Rusty Lie around 1998, it was my intention just to write a silly detective story that dragged on forever, from character to character, never giving any useful information and making the mystery only more complicated and stupid over time. It was a lark and I finished quite a few pages of hand written text before it fell by the wayside and sat in the back seat of my car, the sun bleaching the ink out of the paper, for several months before it ended up in a file cabinet. Almost a decade later, I came across the concept of the National Novel Writing Month and, really looking to get back into writing again, decided that The Big Rusty Lie would be the story most easily told within the confines of a full-sized novel written in a month. Other than rewriting the first five chapters, the details remain roughly the same as they were a decade ago, with few minor exceptions, which is why the book probably gets much better after that point. But it was amusing enough just to take the characters and concepts of the novel out of mothballs and put them back to use again. You have the ensuing years and my great love for Mopper and Gusto to thank for really changing the book from a tedious series of encounters between Bernardo and Ching and whatever ne’er-do-wells they could find and interrogate into the series of strange and surreal events that it would become, unless that would have been more your cup of tea. Involving idiotic and violent characters at every turn in a book that wasn’t really theirs might not be the best idea for some, but that’s where the story went, so that’s what you’ll read. Hopefully the book will amuse pretty much anyone that reads it, though it feels somewhat insular to me in its need to be surreal and drag paragraphs on for days, splicing together 10 to 12 ideas with commas just for the sake of humor that I only seem to get. And the characters may be strange and unlikable, but that’s the world in which Oberwalz lives and I hope you won’t take it personally that I’ve assaulted any of your sensibilities. Though if you have any, perhaps you shouldn’t be reading my book. I extend my thanks to all those who took the time to read over the novel and helped to keep me on track when I really didn’t want to continue rewriting or editing the 7

damned thing, particularly Cathi Miller for reviving my interest and Cheria Coram for giving me far too much time and leeway to make it all happen. (Hopefully, it was all worth it.) Also thanks again to Andrew Jenner for talking through most of those ideas, on and off, for the past ten years and laughing too much when most people would have shrugged. In the end, what you have here is the dream of one man to keep you amused with a long, silly, surreal story. If it makes you laugh, then there’ll be more for you in the future. If it doesn’t, like Ed Wood said in the movie, the next one will be better. That much I can assure you of. Ryan Speck January 17, 2008 Online addendum: What you’re looking at now isn’t that novel that I created, edited, and released myself over the period of a year. This is a digital copy that I’m releasing to you, free of charge, over BitTorrent. It is the whole of the novel, missing nothing, probably still containing a few mistakes, but lacks none of the unsubtle anarchic comedy that is contained in the pages of the printed edition. It’s been out for nearly a year, met with a resounding disinterest (as does almost everything these days), and now I’m giving it to you for free. You see, you can’t trust your friends to care about what you do (they don’t) or help you (they won’t and they sure won’t spend money on you), so I’m leaving it to the public to hopefully find the book and love it or at least maintain the status quo of indifference. Maybe you good people will love it. Or not, but at least it’s some kind of promotion. All I ask, in the end, is that if you really do enjoy the novel, do me the favor of buying it. This isn’t a major publication. I am footing the bill for everything and making slim profits (if you can even call them that), so I could use your help in any way possible. If you do enjoy it, go to my website, ryanspeck.com, and purchase it. There are other free stories there for you to read, as well as links to the novel at Amazon and other worldwide distributors. Thank you. 8

Chapter 1 The Great Escape “Excuse me, sir, but you’re standing in my pudding.” The gentleman in the hospital gown standing on the table didn’t seem to notice and Bernardo wasn’t particularly annoyed, as he was never a pudding fanatic, but it was instances like this that were making his stay at The Lombardo Institute For The Mentally Sub-Standard into something of a chore. The dining hall was abuzz with activity and the other inmates of this little prison wandered aimlessly about him, screaming, crying, and otherwise acting like a bunch of crazy people, as crazy people are generally wont to do. “Get him down from there!” The head orderly was exceptionally unhappy with the way things were going and was expressing his frustration loudly toward the two orderlies under his guidance by screaming directions and stomping his cowboy boots, his one bit of personal identity in the bland conformity of the institution, not that he was supposed to wear them. “Get him down now! Francois! Get his leg! No, Rudy, get the other one! Jesus Christ!” Things were going less than swimmingly for the subordinate orderlies and the man hanging from the ceiling fan, spinning in slow circles, wasn’t budging at all. Somehow he kept his grip as Francois and Rudy were lifted from the ground, trying desperately to hang on, and they too spun slowly through the air as the lead orderly, Mick, rubbed his brow in frustration and watched them from his perch on the step ladder, surely on his way to a migraine or an early retirement after dealing with this sort of foolishness day in and day out for seven and a half years. Of course, one couldn’t really blame the patients, as they were crazy. They didn’t even realize they were crazy, which is why they were here and why, subsequently, he spent all day trying to pry grown men off ceiling fans, prevent them from eating paint chips, small objects, or each other, and restraining a large variety of people who would start screaming for no reason at all, in slight difference to the same kind of people who talked loudly on cell phones while riding mass transit or insisted on screaming at the minimum wage slaves at Taco Cabeza because they didn’t read the person’s mind in regards to which sauces or ingredients they didn’t want on their food.

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Bernardo anticipated something violent or horrible coming very soon, so, as he got up to take his tray back to the kitchen, he walked by the fan and its human ornaments, dangling precariously in the midst of the hall, still rotating over the linoleum. “Claude, please be a dear and get down from the ceiling fan. I thought we’d had a talk about responsibility and the proper usage of household mechanical devices.” Claude, until then hanging from the fan, released his grip immediately and he, Francois, and Rudy collapsed into pile at the base of the ladder with the crunch of stretched tendons and torn ligaments as Bernardo turned and headed on for the kitchen, barely stopping to even notice the results he had wrought. Mick started dragging them all to their feet and finally apprehended the mischievous Claude. The orderlies stared daggers into Bernardo’s back as he shuffled away. “Thank you,” Bernardo yelled back to the milling and oblivious Claude as he left the room. Bernardo Walterhaus headed back to the day room.

Bernardo sat quietly in a large comfy chair in the day room, wrapped snugly in his standard-issue scrubs and robe, thumbing through an ancient, yellowed copy of Woman’s Day Monthly, admiring the new and fashionable developments in gowns for 1968 as the sun beat down through the greenhouse-like windows of the expansive room, where various other strange men wandered, gibbering and laughing to themselves, as the insane generally do when left to their own devices. “Walterhaus…” Bernardo looked up as Mick closed in on him, scowling through his handlebar moustache and swaggering in his would-be cowboy way. Bernardo tapped at one of the pictures in the magazine. “I think my mother had this very same dress.” He slowly kicked his slippered foot back and forth in disinterest, refusing to make eye contact or acknowledge Mick’s presence, as he felt doing so only encouraged the orderlies to do their jobs, which was never a good idea. “Of course, she was wearing it twenty years ago, which is a little behind the curve. Though many say that I got my fashion sense

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from her. What do you think about fashion as a representation of the self?” Mick’s face showed no acknowledgement, as it never seemed to, though that could be the moustache getting the way. “Dr. Lombardo wants to see you, pronto.” Bernardo closed the magazine, which crackled with age and nearly spat a cloud of dust from its decaying pages, setting it aside on a table, and stood up amongst the chaos of the wandering institutionalized souls around him. “Well, then, perhaps we should see him immediately… On the way, I’ll tell you a story about my father’s pipe collection.”

Bernardo sat across the desk, waiting. The woman that sat behind it, Clovis, had been Dr. Lombardo’s secretary for nigh on twenty years, it was said. Very little looked to have changed about her during that time, her hair sitting in a winding pile on the top of her head, held in place by two huge pins, her blouse appearing to be something out of that issue of Woman’s Day Monthly, lacy and polka-dotted with a ruffle down the front, stretched to its limit across her girth, and a pair of ill-fitting cat’s-eye black-rimmed glasses perched on her voluminous face, whose features were all packed into its center, a quality most people found particularly disturbing. She was something out of antiquity, but possessed no anachronistically pleasing personality like one would imagine from some woman who walked out of a 1950’s home economics film strip. That type of woman was far from Clovis, who carried the reek of medicinal-grade cleansers and disinfectants about her constantly and was well on her way to developing a full moustache, much better than the weak clumps of hair that Bernardo had attempted to grow in the general stupidity of his youth and exuberance to seem older and, therefore, more mature. Obviously, he eventually learned all life’s hard lessons about age, maturity, and moustaches. “You’re looking lovely today, Clovis. There’s something particularly radiant about you.” Bernardo often lied just to keep himself entertained. She gave Bernardo the sort of look that a fish generally gives while being wrapped in newspaper.

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“Are you using any new moisturizers, waxes, or fixatives? A new facial… gloss of some kind?” He added “Moustache bleach?” under his breath, unsure if any of these things actually existed for conventional sale. Clovis was generally quiet to the point of never making a sound, only communicating in sluggish grunts when necessitated by her work. Her voice was a rasp and it was best unheard for everyone’s sake. Dr. Lombardo had even taken to answering his own calls, so he wouldn’t have to speak with her over the intercom. Realistically, that severely limited the actual amount of utility she provided, as she was a secretary and not a professional TV-watcher, bowler, or a seafaring Norse barbarian warrior. So she spent much of her time watching a small television set, usually tuned to whatever grimy soap opera she could find with the limited reception of the rabbit ears within the huge stone building. Usually it was something about large-chested men and women coming together in strangely-named small towns and hospitals to incite each other to passion, violence, or the onset of legal proceedings. Or very well all of the above, just not necessarily in that order. Today, those soap operas had been pre-empted to show an important local news story on every one of the channels that had decent reception on Wednesdays, of which there were three, a fact which surely must have annoyed Clovis, but no one would know the difference as her range of emotion only went from a deep scowl to a blank daze. Having received not even the most reptilian of responses from Clovis regarding his queries on facial alteration and lubrication, Bernardo began watching the TV with particular attention as the reporter detailed the crime that had lead to this daytime TV standstill. “Tom, we’re outside the Archipelligo mansion as we speak, where Desmond Archipelligo is meeting with the Mayor, representatives from the Oberwalz police force, federal agents, and Mr. Archipelligo’s legal team. It is unclear whether they have any leads in the case at this time.” “Thanks, Robert.” They returned to the anchor in the studio, a grim-faced man with a bushy moustache totally unfitting to his face and a wardrobe unfitting to his body. “Louissa Marianna Archipelligo, daughter of Desmond Archipelligo, millionaire industrialist, missing. There are currently no suspects announced, but her driver, Pepé 12

Blackwell, is also listed as missing. Authorities are unsure at this time if there is any connection…” He seemed to sag in his seat from the sheer weight of the suit jacket he was wearing, perhaps borrowed from another anchor that was 40 pounds heavier. “Very curious… It may be time, if the proverbial stars are so aligned.” Bernardo muttered to himself, not that Clovis registered anything. “If not now, then when? When better than now? And, if not then, then what better time than now for this, which so obviously is for me? None, so it then must be time.” Clovis barely spared him a piggish glance before returning her porcine eyes to the tiny television with a hunger that was usually accompanied by a feral gorging or a sale at MacHaggarty’s Women’s Clothiers & Equestrian Supply Depot (where you get “panties for pennies” and all petite maternity clothing and horseback riding outfits are 30% off for a limited time). “Now we return you to ‘The Nights Of Our Passion’, already in progress. We will break back in with any further developments. I’m Tom Brunswick. Good day.” “Today of all days. Today of all days…” Bernardo looked for significance in the date: August 18. And a Wednesday. There was a full moon in 4 days. Salisbury steak was on the menu for dinner. He believed corn was accompanying, though he could be wrong. They had been known to go with pinto beans as a vegetable side, but it was entirely inappropriate for the meal. The Dow was down 20 points. No two-headed calves had been born in Oberwalz in one year, three months, and six days. He was starting to think that Pepsi might taste as good as Coke. He had a rash on his left inner thigh in the shape of Jimmy Dean serving a Bundt cake to the Pointer Sisters. Was this indeed the time? Were these the portents he was looking for? Dr. Lombardo opened his office door. “Mr. Walterhaus, I can see you now.” “I should hope so; otherwise it means you’re still blind…” He was met with silence. “Just a small joke, doctor.”

The man with the hat had stopped at the rest stop on Highway 96, fourteen miles to the West of Westfallsbrookburg, well out of Oberwalz County. More

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noticeable than the large, colorful, ostentatious bowler hat that he wore, most people assumed to annoy those around him or be ironically hip by wearing something that no one else would bother to wear on purpose, was the strange and slimy contents oozing from the sides of the trailer being dragged behind his late-70’s mid-sized American sedan. Though covered in a tarp, it possessed the strangest smell imaginable and, if the pay to move the goods hadn’t been so high, he surely would have never bothered to accept the assignment. But strange and eccentric millionaires who pay large sums of money to have trailers carried 250 miles were not a dime a dozen and he’d be damned if he’d pass up a good opportunity at money, even one such as this, suspect and disturbing though it may be. He skirted around the edge of the trailer, eyeing it warily. The blue tarp over the simple two-wheeled steel and wood trailer gave it a benign normality, but he knew what was lurking underneath the colorful sheet of plastic. He lifted up a corner to check on the contents, watching some greasy runoff dripping from one corner of trailer’s bottom. Underneath the tarp, all was currently well, or as well as a trailer-load of greasy cooked pork chops and small packets of the orange cheese powder to be mixed with boxed macaroni and cheese could be on a sunny day. It was still there, at least. He headed quickly for the rest stop bathroom, hoping to be back on the road and done with this pricey fool’s errand before dark so he could get back to his life and away from the smell. As the hat (and its accompanying wearer) disappeared from view into the men’s room, the Asian man skulked closer to the vehicle and its cargo, making sure that he was not noticed.

“Mr. Walterhaus, how are we doing today?” The short, ever-increasingly more round Dr. Ernst Lombardo sat down behind his large wooden desk, barely even paying attention to Bernardo as he talked to him. He wore his white doctor’s coat as a badge of his station, but he spent most of his day confined to his office, avoiding patients and Clovis, so it was for little more than show.

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Also for show was the very old and intricate stained glass window looming behind the desk, surely to give the impression of superior importance or, perhaps, piety to those poor souls who sat before him. Bernardo sat on the other side of the large oak desk and, lurking behind him in the corners, stood Francois and Rudy. Bernardo gazed out the window and noticed the pigeons scurrying on the window sill, watching intently, he imagined, the people inside. Perhaps it was yet another one of the signs he’d been looking for… “We’re doing fine, I suppose, Doctor. Yourself? Any news of the world? Portents? Cures and potions? Better days to come? Hopes and dreams? Feelings of insecurity and doubt?” “Bernardo, what’s going on here?” There was a bitter edge in Lombardo’s voice. Bernardo took the spiteful tone in stride and happily replied, relaxing in his chair, as if he was discussing life with an old friend over coffee. “Well, Doctor, I imagine it’s supposed to have something to do with the healing of the human psyche, the regaining of that lost element of one’s humanity that drives one to madness, the search for meaning in a meaningless world…” Lombardo was nearly over the desk, eyes bulging, barking at Bernardo. “Bernardo! Do you understand what you’re doing here?” “Well, I suppose it has something to do with my defiant nature, my desire to right the wrongs of a chaotic world, my insistence on doing things the proper way…” “Your way bears little resemblance to the ‘proper way’, Mr. Walterhaus! You fancy yourself a detective…” “The world’s greatest detective.” “…yes, the ‘world’s greatest detective’. But your irrational methods amount to nothing more than luck and being in the right place at the right time. You’re a fraud, Walterhaus, and you know it, deep down.” Bernardo finally took noticeable offense. “There is no lack in art and skill regarding my previous work! ‘The Case of the Big, Burning Mattress’? ‘The Case of the Relatively Unattractive Middle-Aged Gentleman’? These are not the works of an amateur or some lucky chump! These are the works of a brilliant mind. These are the works of someone with a keen insight into the human condition. These are the works of a former "Wheel of Fortune" contestant. These are 15

the works of the world’s greatest detective!” Bernardo gestured triumphantly and held the pose for far longer than necessary, no one in the room breaking their cold stares. ”The Mayor thinks that you manufacture these little convenient crimes yourself so that you can come up with your very improbable solutions. And I, for one, am forced to agree with him, based on my opinion of you and your insights.” “Yes, well, the Mayor isn’t a very bright man. I wouldn’t even begin to speculate as to all the strange and wondrous things that enter his imagination.” “Well, your estimation of him is of very little value to me, as he is the reason you’re in here, he provides me with much of our funding, and he is the Mayor of Oberwalz. He is a person of importance. You are a person who is going to rot away the rest of your miserable deluded life amongst the insane.” “I’m sorry, Ernst… Did we get off-topic somewhere in this line of questioning? Why am I here exactly?” “That’s what I was asking you. It seems that Francois and Rudy have informed me that you were rather disruptive in the cafeteria earlier today.” Bernardo’s eyes glanced back briefly at the orderlies bookending the door behind him. “Not in the least.” “Well, this is far from the first complaint I’ve had since you got here. You may have made some deranged connection with a few of the patients, who are undoubtedly now under the spell of your lunacy, but I think you’ll have to spend a week or two under confinement until we can be sure that the orderlies feel safe in your presence again. A few hard weeks. I feel it’s the necessary step to making everyone’s life here a little more tolerable and getting your mind straight as to how things run around here and your place within that system.” “Doctor, I don’t think that I can stand for this sort of treatment. I didn’t stand for it when I took second place in the Miss Oberwalz Tire Factory pageant, I didn’t stand for it when MegaVideo told me I owed a seven dollar late fee on some bleak French film called One Hundred Years Of Today that I'd never heard of or rented, and I’m not going to stand for it now.” Bernardo’s eyes narrowed and his posture straightened in defiance. “Well, Mr. Walterhaus, I don’t imagine you’ll have to.” Francois and Rudy closed in from the sides, hands outstretched, ready for the struggle to come. They all 16

struggled and fought, but it was only a matter of time before they were locked away. Bernardo had a different idea, though. He sprang up from his seat, leaping onto the desk in front of him. Francois and Rudy rushed after him, but Bernardo never stopped for a moment. With a glancing step off of Ernst Lombardo’s face, Bernardo barreled through the stained glass window and fell three stories to the ground.

The car pulled up outside The Lombardo Institute For The Mentally Sub-Standard. Ching Dic-Tofon was entirely unsure as how to signal Mr. Walterhaus as to the escape plan he had devised. With a mix of luck and careful timing, he’d managed to procure the elements necessary for the escape. Now came the arduous task of alerting him to the plan, distracting the guards, and managing a speedy rescue from the bonds of the asylum. He was somewhat surprised, then, when he heard a shattering sound and it rained down colorful shards of glass all around him, moments before Bernardo Walterhaus crashed into the pile of greasy, overcooked pork chops and small packets of orange cheese powder that filled the trailer he’d been towing. Bernardo sat up, greasy and orange, from the rumpled tarp. “Ching, my good man, your timing is impeccable! We must away, as quickly as possible! The chase is already on and I am now slick with the moisture of freedom!” The lanky Asian nodded. “Yes, Mistah Watahaus.” “I have the highest hopes that you brought me a change of clothes or a very small washer and dryer…” Ching was already hanging halfway through the back window of the car, tossing Bernardo a full backpack as he pulled himself back out. Bernardo headed for the passenger seat. “Ching, you are indeed the best.” “Yea, suh.” Ching quickly unlocked the trailer from the car’s hitch and they sped away down Rural Route 9 as orderlies surged from the front of the building, running behind in the car’s dust trail in a vain attempt to catch up with the vehicle. Breathless, one hand over his pounding heart and the other searching for a wall to steady himself, Dr. Lombardo

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finally burst from the front door of the building. Francois and Rudy rushed to the puffing, red-faced man’s aid. “Find… that… bastard,” he wheezed, coughing out words between breaths. “Bring him… back… to me.” The Mayor would not be happy when he heard that Walterhaus had escaped. First, Lombardo had to make sure that the damage was controlled and, if done quickly, he could even make sure the Mayor never heard about the incident at all. But Ernst Lombardo would have his revenge on Walterhaus, at any cost.

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Chapter 2 Pressed Pants & Parentage As Bernardo wriggled into his long coat, he was beginning to feel more like himself. With a wardrobe as odd as Bernardo’s, it was easy to see why he hadn’t found a suitable replacement in the institution: his scrubs and robe had been replaced with his usual cream pantaloons and knee-high soft-leather boots and he had his requisite long white linen coat, bright red scarf, large brimmed white hat, and motorcycle goggles, giving him the full mystique of the “world’s greatest detective,” just as intended. And the moist towelettes from the glove compartment definitely helped that perception, though the car still smelled like old pork and cheese. “Well, Ching, it’s a good day. All the signs were there and my estimation was perfect. Our escape seems, for the moment, to be scot-free and we can now leap back into action, just as the adder strikes at the pelican. We shall be there and we shall be triumphant over the forces of evil, darkness, and kidnappery!” “Yes, suh, Mistah Watahaus. But weech mystery wirr we sorve today?” Ching’s English was excellent but he still spoke with a very particular accent. Bernardo was so used to it that he didn’t even notice anymore, though it occasionally confused those who were not familiar with Ching. “The Archipelligo case, of course. It cries out for our attention, like a naked babe left in the woods to be raised by goats. First, I must speak with Mr. Archipelligo, get a feel for this lost girl, declare my brilliant plan, and then we can get to work, as usual.” “But, the Mayuh…” “Yes, the Mayor is skulking around the edges of Mr. Archipelligo’s empire, waiting for a handout, like some domesticated dingo. He’ll surely need to be confronted. But, worry not, Ching, he’ll not want to show off his true character in front of the news cameras or his aristocratic paymaster.” He smiled. “And, plus, I have a disguise.”

Desmond Archipelligo came out through the front doors of his mansion looking like the suave, well-tailored “master

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of the universe” that he knew he was, trailed by personal security, government agents, police officials, the Mayor’s staff, the Mayor himself, and assorted other sycophants, all yearning for this rich man’s favor. He walked over to the hastily-set-up podium covered in microphones that had been placed at the top of his front steps. Throngs of reporters from Oberwalz waited below, eager to get the story into that day’s afternoon edition of the paper or have full coverage for the six o’clock news. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’ll be taking some questions in a moment, but the police commissioner, Jack Dickle, wanted to say a few words.” Desmond passed the podium over to the police commissioner, who was wearing his full dress uniform, featuring more ribbons and medals across the chest than the average high-ranking army general, many of them for service in the line of duty, police rank, and a few that his staff were pretty sure he had bought on the internet and didn’t have any actual significance. The man spoke with a flat matter-of-fact monotone. “Good afternoon. We at the Oberwalz P.D. wanted the media to be aware that this case is very much still in progress, so we won’t have too many concrete answers for you today. We have some good leads, we are searching for Pepé Blackwell as a potential witness or secondary victim of this crime, and we will be contacting you with any further information in this case. Now, I’ll hand this back to Mr. Archipelligo…” “Thank you, Jack. Obviously, I am distraught over the loss of my daughter.” Everything in Archipelligo’s voice said otherwise, sounding clearly more like a man asking for a better table in a restaurant. “We have yet to hear from the kidnappers, but my father’s plea is this: please return my daughter. She is precious to me. I will do what is necessary to get her back. It’s been twenty-seven hours now and we’ve yet to hear from the kidnappers, so my hope is that we’ll hear from them soon. Yes, down in the front…” The reporter that Archipelligo had pointed to yelled out a question. “Other than the standard police investigation, what steps are being undertaken to find your daughter?” “Well, the federal forces have been so kind as to help in the search for the kidnappers and the police are doing all they can, especially with the recent, tragic loss of all but two of their active detectives from poisoning by a vat of tainted tuna salad at the annual Detective’s Ball. The Mayor is attempting to oversee the investigation himself…” The Mayor 20

winced at the subtle jab in Archipelligo’s tone. “…to make sure that everything goes smoothly. Now we just have to wait and pray.” He shuddered slightly after realizing how clichéd that sounded. He was beginning to sound like every other jackass on the news, whining about their hillbilly brat that had fallen down a well or gotten trapped in a drainage pipe. It was so… well, low-class. “Are there any suspects at the moment? And is Pepé Blackwell included in that list?” Inside his head, Desmond Archipelligo was sighing. Actually, Desmond was wondering who that asshole in back with the bad toupee was to ask him questions and then wondered if he could have him fired with a phone call to his newspaper. Maybe he could buy the whole thing and do the deed himself. Instead of any of that, he actually said, “I’m not able to answer that at this time. The police will surely make any such announcements in the near future.” “What would you say, sir, to the notion that the police are incompetent and they’ll never find your daughter?” All eyes scanned the group of reporters, looking for who had uttered those words. Eventually, Desmond locked onto a reporter in a floppy, large-brimmed white hat, pantaloons, motorcycle goggles, and what looked to be a large, fake moustache, who seemed to stare rather intently at the small pad he was holding in his hand, pen at the ready, though no one could really tell exactly where he was looking behind the blackness of the circular eyewear. “Exactly what the hell are you implying?” Bernardo looked up at him, poking at the fake moustache with one finger to make sure it wasn’t dislodged by conversation. “Well, perhaps, if the police are getting no results, you should look into the world of private investigation, as quite many of those fine investigators are prone to actually getting results, finding people while still alive, and not making tremendous fools of themselves, unlike the police department. No offense to the Commissioner, of course.” “Sir, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about…” Mayor Dell Moosegarten stepped forward. “Walterhaus? Walterhaus? Is that you under that stupid goddamned moustache? Damn it! Seize that man! Somebody grab him!” Bernardo ripped off his hairy lip appliance as all eyes and cameras turned to him. “I am Bernardo Walterhaus! I am the world’s greatest detective and I am the only hope of finding your daughter, Mr. Archipelligo! I will find Louissa if 21

it’s the last thing I do! The Mayor would hope to incarcerate me, but I seek only to provide you with the service you require: a keen insight that will bring back your daughter alive!” As the police surrounded him and dragged him, still yelling about the case, inside the mansion, the other reporters started screaming their much louder questions at Desmond Archipelligo. Under the barrage of deafening voices, Archipelligo threw his hands in the air in frustration and re-entered his home. The Mayor made his way to the microphone. “Um… Good day. We’ll get back to you with any more details very soon.”

Dell Moosegarten, a fat toad of a man in a very expensive suit, leaned in close to Walterhaus’ face, smelling strongly of cheap aftershave. Bernardo was held in place by two large but not particularly bright uniformed police officers while the pacing, screaming Moosegarten berated him. “Damn it, Walterhaus… What the hell do you think you’re doing? You incited a damned riot out there! For what? To promote yourself? To make yourself look like the big damned hero? To get more business for your crazy horseshit detective agency?” Bernardo wiped away a fleck of spittle ejected onto his cheek by the man’s screaming. “Sir, you know very well that I’m the only man who can solve this mystery. Like a King Arthur that will draw the sword-like solution from the stone of ignorance and confusion, I am the man necessary to solve the most distressing puzzle of Miss Archipelligo’s disappearance! No other shall suffice!” “There’s no mystery here, Bernardo, it’s a god damned kidnapping. They take someone; they get paid; the person comes back! Where’s the mystery there? It’s not some god damned conspiracy to take over the country and it’s not rocket science. It’s a kidnapping. Kidnappers are as predictable as…” Desmond Archipelligo angrily stomped over to where the argument was taking place, his crisp suit jacket unbuttoned and his tone drastically less regal than at the press conference. “What the hell was that outside, Dell? And who is this man?”

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“Sir, I’m very sorry… This man is an escaped mental patient…” Archipelligo fumed. “And how, exactly, do you know that? You knew his name, outside… You seem to know quite a bit about this gentleman. Why is that, Dell?” Moosegarten began to sweat profusely. “Well, sir, that’s a very long story…” “He had me locked up. In an asylum. I like to think because he just doesn’t like me… Not such a long story, I suppose.” Bernardo smiled at Archipelligo. Moosegarten shook his fists, a certain frantic desperation coming over him. “I had to do it, sir! This man is dangerous, Mr. Archipelligo! He thinks he’s some kind of super-detective. He runs around, spreading his madness, creating unbelievable damage, and faking the results! I mean, I’m not even sure the cases he solves are real! I think they’re just all hoaxes. It’s for attention! He probably just wants you to pay him to find your daughter, then he’ll run off with the money… He may have even kidnapped her!” All eyes turned from the Mayor to Bernardo, ready to throw all the suspicion back his way. “With all due respect, I only escaped the Institute two hours ago. I’m sure Dr. Lombardo will be very unhappy to have to tell you that… Which, now that I’ve been on the local news, I’m sure he’ll be telling you about very soon. As soon as he manages to get together the spine to call you, that is.” Archipelligo breathed hate as he stared into Moosegarten’s eyes. “Dell?” “Yes, Mr. Archipelligo?” “Did you want to continue to have a political career in my city, Dell?” “Yes, Mr. Archipelligo. Absolutely.” “Then find my fucking daughter. Hunt down that kidnapping wetback driver and get my girl back. There’s your answer, ransom or no. If you find that spic fuck, you’ll get my girl back.” “Yes, sir.” “You…” Archipelligo’s finger shot at Bernardo like an arrow. “Bernardo Walterhaus, world’s greatest detective, at your service.” Bernardo attempted a flourish, but was held tightly in place by the two officers hedging him in and the gesture came off as more of a spasm. “Yes… Walterhaus. Do you really think you can find my daughter?” 23

“Oh, without a doubt, sir. Never have I not found something that needed finding.” There was a long pause as that soaked in. “Then let him go... Go find her, Walterhaus. And don’t let me ever see you again if you don’t.” The Mayor stared, gape-mouthed, in shock and the police officers looked at each other in total confusion before finally complying and taking their hands gently off of Bernardo’s arms. “Thank you, sir. You will not regret the faith and trust you have placed in me this day.” “I hope not, Walterhaus… And what is it that you want to do this for me?” “What do I want, sir? Just the knowledge that this lost girl is safe, my good man! That is more than enough. Though getting the Mayor off my proverbial back is more than enough icing for this particular cake.” “Right… Whatever. If you manage to find her, that might not be all you get, Mr. Walterhaus. I am known to be most generous to those who do me favors…” Archipelligo’s voice trailed off and everyone stood for several moments in silence, their minds washing in the promise of his offer. Finally, Bernardo broke the uncomfortable silence. “Yes… Well, I am away to right the wrongs and return that which has been torn from you.” Bernardo strode purposefully from the room, all eyes following him until the front door of the mansion slammed, marking his exit. Moosegarten, still unable to completely comprehend what had gone on, stuttered out the only words he could think of. “Sir… What was that about? Why… why… why…” “Shut up, Moosegarten. I don’t care if crazy detectives, Sherpas, Eskimo bounty hunters, a marching band, or a god-damned trained monkey finds my daughter, as long as it’s done quickly and quietly.” Desmond grimaced and headed toward his study. “What’s the worst he could do? Find her? Let me keep an eye on him. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it… It’s probably too busy thinking of ways to waste all the money I give the city.” The study door slammed behind him, leaving the Mayor, the police officers, and several other officials standing in the large foyer, looking at each other uncomfortably. Moosegarten fumed and muttered under his breath. “Damn it. I’m going to get that bastard.”

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Bernardo climbed back into the stolen car, where Ching was waiting for him. “All went as hoped, Ching. Possibly better. I’m on the case and the Mayor is presently disinclined to interfere or inhibit our movements, at least as much so as the Mayor would ever allow. And it seems that our Mr. Archipelligo most fervently believes his daughter has been kidnapped by her driver, Pepé Blackwell, ne’er-do-well of the highest order by the man’s estimation, though one wonders why he would keep such a scoundrel in his employ. We should certainly look into his whereabouts and see what clues we can gather as to the disappearance of both…” As they drove away from the Archipelligo mansion, Bernardo looked at the surrounding homes, huge monoliths of stone, covered in garages to fit their dozens of expensive imported cars, servants swarming across the grounds like tiny ants to appease their wealthy employers’ every urge, mowing gigantic lawns, cleaning huge pools, and taking care of insolent and spoiled children. Shutterset East was where the rich came to spawn and die like gilded opulent salmon. They liked it here, as it was as far away from the normal, dirty, poor populace as possible, leaving them to their ivory towers, miles up Route 4, where the average person couldn’t invade their homes without passing through security gates or climbing over barbed wired fences, as far removed from Oberwalz proper as possible without being inconvenient to them. Sitting around 10 miles North of the city limits, it was one of Oberwalz’s few proper suburbs and it was a fortress of wellmanicured lawns and shining marble, maintained to keep the rabble from moving in up the street from the millionaires and their pet golf courses. Bernardo wondered how Pepé Blackwell fit into this world, how a young man from a more humble background came to this place, and what his relationship was with the family who had employed him for several years as their driver. “Pepé Blackwell is missing, Ching. The police can’t find him, though the Oberwalz Police Department has never been in the habit of finding much other than graft, the abilities of our few honorable contacts to the contrary. Who would know where he is? Who would have had contact with the man?

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And how would we find them? What would be one of the most consistent and unchanging parts of his life? Ching, what is the most important aspect of the chauffeur and, therefore, an important part of his everyday life?” “The cah, Mistah Watahaus?” “Not the car, Ching. The car, in the end, is the property of his employer, like the vehicle a forklift operator would use every day. His vehicle is no more personal to him than it is to those men on forklifts, slamming into pallets and breaking jars of pickles and bottles of corn syrup across the cold concrete warehouse floors of the world. The uniform, Ching! The appearance of calm, crisp uniformity that keeps their rich patrons comfortable in their lowly presence! And yet it gives them their sense of identity, a crisp personae of nobility, despite their bloodline. Much like your suit, Ching, so similar to that of a real chauffeur…” Bernardo’s driver was no underling, but he had always dressed a style similar to paid chauffeurs: black pants, shoes, cap, and high-collared coat with white shirt underneath. “Ching, with such an important daily wardrobe, undoubtedly made with the most fantastic and exotic array of artificial fabrics, what care must be taken with it?” “Dry creaning, suh?” “Correct, Ching! And where is the best place to dry clean your suits, where someone with a job as important as Pepé’s could be assured of the highest care and quality? His honor and pride would certainly hinge upon the crisp dapperness of his clothing…” Ching lit up with the knowledge of their next destination. “Theh is onry one prace, suh!” “Back to the city, Ching! We are on a mission of inspired detection! Hence to find those closest to our wayward driver or his whereabouts! Onward!”

Dell Moosegarten picked up the phone receiver and dialed the number from his day planner. The phone rang four times before it was answered by the irritable voice of Dr. Ernst Lombardo. “Dr. Lombardo’s office.” “It’s Dell Moosegarten, Ernst.” The intake of breath on Lombardo’s end was audible. “Don’t you have a secretary to take your calls?”

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“Oh…” Lombardo still hadn’t recovered and his voice cracked with every word. “She… she stepped out. Busy with… Ha! Well, you know women! Always something… Had to run to take care of some Institute business, I imagine… Busy, busy, busy!” “I imagine you know why I’m calling…” Moosegarten’s voice was like sandpaper on a baby’s face. If Archipelligo had a hold on him, he was going to squeeze Ernst Lombardo until he felt better about his place in this particular chain of command. Lombardo’s eyes twitched as he tried to contain his fear at the havoc this man could wreak in his career and tried to think of any lie that would be vaguely functional before finally giving in and spitting out the truth, or at least a close approximation. “I… I was going to call you… You wouldn’t believe what happened.” “No, Ernst, I don’t imagine you were going to call… I wouldn’t call either if I were you. If I made a galactic fuckup like you have, I would have left town.” “Dell, I can fix it! I swear! I have men out looking for him right now. Two of my… best.” “Well, you’d better hope you do, Lombardo. Because I can’t touch him… Archipelligo told me to back off and he’s going to have my ass if I do otherwise, not because he likes that bastard or even cares what I do to him, but just to watch me squirm! Do you hear me, Ernst? If I go down, you’ll go down with me! And if you don’t get him, you’ll be playing a clown at a children’s hospital in Calcutta for the rest of your fucking days! Understand?” There was a whimper on Ernst Lombardo’s end. “Good. Now take care of it. I’ll be calling back and I want good news.”

Ching parked the car as inconspicuously as possible on E. West Avenue SW, in front of P. Gregory’s Frame Your Shit! Bernardo waited several minutes before getting out of the car just to be sure they weren’t being trailed by the Mayor, Dr. Lombardo, or the police, though he hoped that Archipelligo’s ire was enough to allow them safe passage for some time. After he felt that it was indeed safe, he hurriedly crossed the street and stood outside the front door of

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Morty’s Drip & Dry, his head darting left and right to make sure he wasn’t followed, before finally slipping in the door. The bell on the door jingled as it swung closed and the wizened old man behind the counter turned from a stack of shirts and the endless mechanical sounds of assorted cleaning apparatuses to look at Bernardo. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I help you with?” He was a tiny balding fellow, face deeply lined, with a shirt pocket full of cigars and, though Bernardo was only average height, he still had to look down to make eye contact with the little man. “Would you, perhaps, be the Morty of the Morty’s Drip & Dry, the proprietor of this fine and most noteworthy establishment?” “That I am, young man.” “Delightful! It is most excellent to make your acquaintance! It’s so rare these days to find a true master of the art of proper attire upkeep. Do you have any laundered clothing here for Mr. Pepé Blackwell?” “Yes, I believe I do, son…” He turned away to shuffle over to the racks of clothing before suddenly turning back around. “Wait... That order was picked up yesterday morning, son.” “Ah… Around exactly what time, my good man?” “I’d guess around one… Right after lunch.” Bernardo sighed. “Oh. Do you happen to know… where Mr. Blackwell might currently reside?” Morty paused and eyed Bernardo carefully before speaking. “Sir, I don’t think I should answer any more questions for you. Mr. Blackwell…” Bernardo interrupted him by pulling a small card out of his pocket with a broad wave and holding it in Morty’s face. The old man stood immobile for several seconds, squinting, before pulling his glasses out of his jacket pocket and slowly putting them on. Finally, his eyes focusing, he was able to read the small print on the business card: “Bernardo Walterhaus, World’s Greatest Detective.” “Mister… Walter… haus… that might be enough for many people in these parts, but I’m not going to give out personal information on my clients just because you’ve stuck a business card in my face. I don’t care what line of work you say you’re in.” “I admire your acumen and care for your clientele. I imagine that’s why you are the best in the city, Mr. Morty. Well, that and the fantastic job you do on pressed shirts. 28

And I hear that the chemicals and starch you use are particularly friendly to those with sensitive skin, which is very impressive to someone that has experience in the cleaning arts.” “Well, I do try, young man. If you don’t love your work, what do you have?” “Unfortunately, I’m on a direly important mission to save the life of a young girl. So I have no time to waste on explanations or arguing. I don’t know if you’ve seen the news today, but the life of one Miss Louissa Marianna Archipelligo is at stake… Now I hate to have to use this, but I do have a credential that I only prefer to use in the most dire of circumstances and I can think of none so dire as this.” Bernardo pulled a wallet out of his coat pocket and fumbled to remove something from the plastic picture/credit card holder. “These things always stick.” Bernardo continued to try to get his fingers around the glossy card, which refused to budge. “That’s why I keep mine inside the wallet pockets and throw the plastic one away. They’re not good for much.” Morty stood on his toes to get a better look. Violently ripping it from the plastic, Bernardo finally presented the card to Morty, who read it over, looking from it to Bernardo and back again several times. Finally, after a long silence, he handed the card back with a sigh and headed for his office in the rear. Bernardo waited at the counter In two minutes, Morty returned with the billing address for Pepé Blackwell. Bernardo thanked the man profusely and left. Bernardo climbed back into the car, where Ching was waiting patiently. “Whayr to, suh?” “Good news and bad news, Ching. Pepé picked up his clothes yesterday, after the kidnapping but apparently before disappearing himself. This bodes badly for his involvement in Louissa’s capture. Unless he’s a patsy for the real kidnappers, he may be caught up in this, like a cat in fishnet stockings.” “An de good news, suh?” “We have his address… I had to use my United Dairy Council Membership to get it. You know how I hate to flaunt those powers. But in the case of emergency, I can’t afford to wait for results to come to me. And there’s nothing to 29

frighten someone into giving you that necessary piece of information like the fear of those who control your supply of milk and dairy products. I hate to wield the power for ill, as it is a heavy responsibility… But perhaps we can find some clues that the police missed. And, in the long run, that will make the flexing of my political muscle worthwhile.”

“Are you ready, Ching?” Ching dispassionately nodded, always ready for any form of incident, violent or otherwise, and Bernardo knocked on the door at 1457 Putred Avenue, a small, old brownstone, Southeast of downtown, which reminded him somewhat of his own home that he had not seen in some months. The knock was answered by a small grey-haired man, getting wide around the middle in his old age and losing much of his hair. A small, curly-haired woman in an apron shuffled up behind him in the doorway. They both had caramel skin and eyes that appeared as slits in their sun-lined faces, making them both look like the dried apple-head dolls that you’d get from a vendor at the state fair. “Who is it, papa?” the little woman asked from the back, in that strange way that parents refer to each other as “father” and “mother” or some synonym, a fact that Bernardo had always found mildly disturbing. “We aren’t talking to reporters,” the little man said as he began to close the door in Bernardo’s face. Bernardo stopped it in mid-swing with his foot. “Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell, I presume? We are not reporters. This is my faithful man-servant and driver, Ching Dic-Tofon, and I am Bernardo Walterhaus, world’s greatest detective, explorer, writer, artist, sculptor, bon vivant, and part-time sheep-herder, though only in the off-season and mainly as part of an agricultural studies class I was taking at the city college at one point.” “Oh, yes… We saw on the news channel on the TV. You are the one who says they will find Louissa, who pulls off the moustache. And you will find my Pepé, as well, I suppose?” “Might we come in and speak of this further, sir?” Bernardo and Ching were ushered into the small living room of the Blackwells, where they sat down on a plasticcovered couch. Mrs. Blackwell left the living room, where they sat for several minutes, quietly admiring the cozy

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antiquity of their surroundings, with its yellow flower patterns, plastic-covered furniture, knick-knacks and keepsakes on the mantle, and picture frames covering the room like a plague on an unsuspecting and unprepared equatorial third world populace. Most of the pictures were of a family, long ago, a father, a mother, and a boy. As the pictures progressed, the boy grew older and larger, a younger, stronger, leaner version of Mr. Blackwell. Sancho Blackwell noticed Bernardo’s gaze locking on the photos. “You see my son, Pepé?” “Yes,” Bernardo looked up. “Seems like a fine young man and a good fellow. I’m very worried for him, if I might say so.” Conchita Blackwell shuffled back into the room carrying a tray of antique teacups. “Why are you worried for my Pepé?” “Well, madam, he seems to be involved with… oh, thank you.” Bernardo took a cup of tea from the little woman, adding some sugar, before sipping it carefully. “He seems to be involved somehow with this kidnapping. He was seen after the disappearance; he was Louissa’s driver; she was not seen again after he drove her away from the Archipelligo estate yesterday. All of these are very bad signs and suspicion lies heavily on the young man… Pepé lives here?” Bernardo motioned around the room. “Yes, he’s been staying in a room upstairs, when he hasn’t stayed in the servant’s quarters at the Archipelligo house. Sometimes they need a driver at all hours and he can’t come home, for days sometimes. I have never seen a driver spend so much time on work, but Pepé was so busy with that family. He was always there.” “Did he come home yesterday before disappearing?” The two looked at each other sadly. Finally, Conchita spoke. “We didn’t tell the police when they came to tear his room apart… We don’t want to believe our Pepé could be in any kind of trouble. He came home yesterday afternoon, early. He packed some clothes. He told us not to worry, he would be gone for a few days, for an important trip. It was very important, he said, and he had to go away. We didn’t ask why. He was such a good boy, we never worried for him. He was always so responsible…” Sancho broke in. “I came to this place two and a half decades ago to find a better life. I knew there would be a place for me. We came to get away from all the suffering in our life. And I knew that they needed cheap labor here in 31

Oberwalz, so I took a job making twenty thousand dollars a year in an accounting firm, doing the taxes for the catheter mines. But it was worth it to provide for my family and to get away from the poverty, squalor, and inhuman conditions of Detroit. For the family… Pepé had the same sense of responsibility. He just wanted a good life and to take care of his own.” “He was always a hard worker for that horrible Mr. Archipelligo.” There was anger in Conchita Blackwell’s voice. Bernardo made mental note of that animosity for the millionaire. “So where do you think he would have gone, if he didn’t kidnap this girl?” “Pepé did not want to burden us with his problems. He kept his private life to himself… If he had wanted to tell us, he would. He was sad sometimes… But he was happy, too. There was joy in his life, very much lately. And Pepé would never do anything wrong, ever. That was not our boy. Our boy was very good, always.” “Do you have any ideas where he might have gone? Anyone he could have gone with or to? Anything?” “No… Pepé’s life was his work. He had time for us, but that was where his heart was, it seemed. He didn’t spend much time anywhere else than at the Archipelligo home.” Bernardo sighed and looked at his hands. “Can I look at his room?”

Back in the car, Bernardo looked out the window. “This is quite a pickle, Ching.” “Yes, suh.” “We are men without leads. We know not what the future holds or where to go to find that which we require. We are lost and set adrift on this journey that had just begun, with so much promise for a bright future. We are lost like the zoo animal released into the wild during a particularly large storm, frightened by the noise, wary of all that surrounds us, hungry, lost, lonely, and lacking an opposable thumb. What to do now? Where to go? Where does a man go when he must find information that no one knows, unsure of what it is that he even needs to know?” “To ged a dreenk, suh?”

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“That… That’s an excellent idea, Ching! And I know just the place.”

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Chapter 3 Bar-Hopping They cruised about twelve miles West out of Oberwalz on Highway 96 before making the Southern turn down Highway 42, putting them just North of the Left Car city limits. Well after nightfall, the beat-up sedan pulled into the Left Car Gas N’ Go & Pub, part of a series of new gas station/bar hybrids that AlliGentCo had been trying out on a test basis in the local area. Three quarters of the building was what you’d imagine in any out-of-the-way country roadhouse: wooden floors, rough customers, old-looking furniture best suited for breaking over someone’s back or head, smoky darkness, and a yokel clientele fit for Deliverance. The other quarter was a clean, well-lit, linoleum shrine to modern convenience. This catered to those more likely to buy a bag of chips on top of filling up their cars out front at one of their eight convenient pumps (plus diesel). There was no transition and the linoleum just ended, giving way to the worn-looking wooden planks, or at least what appeared to be wooden planks, and darkness. In these pre-fab establishments, nothing was ever exactly as it appeared. Bernardo Walterhaus, supported by his man Ching, was not there for gas or a 142 ounce beverage. Not even for beef jerky, snack cakes, and a novelty liquid candy dispenser in the shape of a douche. He was there for information. And information, as you come to learn, is found in the dingy recesses of bars. Though books and libraries are also important places to find knowledge, the kind of knowledge Bernardo sought was not found within some dusty tome or archive. It was in the head of Horatio “Lucky” Wipplestein, if there was indeed knowledge to be had at all, at least in regard to the seedy underworld. Otherwise, you probably would be better off at the library and I’d have to apologize for even recommending a dingy dive as a source to help you complete a term paper, references surely hard to cite from anecdotal sources named “Jimmy The Fence” and “Luco Two-Guns.” The nickname “Lucky” was something of a misnomer. Perhaps it had been given by someone with an intense sense of irony at some point in the far past, but it had stuck to this unfortunate and hapless soul, always caught between the world of law, the world of crime, and a harsh beating, 34

usually at the hands of one of the previous two, if not both on the same day. When Bernardo found him, he was sitting at one of the dingy tables, in the dim recesses of the pub, ready to begin work on his mug of beer, standing out like a sore thumb in his loose and ancient, second-hand brown tweed suit and drooping colorful bow tie. He was so intent on the beer that he never saw Bernardo coming, which was helpful, as he would have run from the establishment like a track and field star being accosted by a cheetah. So, when he looked up from his first sip of beer and saw Bernardo standing over him, he shrieked like a little girl and attempted to jump up and race, screaming, from the bar. Unfortunately for him, Ching was standing behind the young man and forced him back into his chair with a blow to the shoulders. The mug of beer, dropped from his hand to facilitate escape, rocketed back to the table, bouncing once and spraying beer everywhere before settling on its side, spinning slowly on the flat surface, a river of ale pouring off the dirty wooden table planks. “Um… Hey… Bernardo. When did you get out?” Lucky shifted and shook nervously, ready to bolt at any moment toward the closest door. Though he knew he’d never make it past the Chinaman, so kept his seat and tried to look pitiable. Bernardo pushed up his motorcycle goggles onto his forehead, revealing his crazed eyes. “As soon as I could, Horatio. It wasn’t exactly my idea of a Sunday picnic in the country, sipping lemonade and skipping rope with young pigtailed girls. It was more like a desperate donkey ride toward oblivion, devoid of meaning, hope, and baked beans.” “I wouldn’t know what that’s like…” “I should imagine you wouldn’t, my little friend. Though you could do much worse than institutionalization. I think the circles you travel in end up being much more dangerous and unhealthy than a few weeks in a mental asylum. You are in a very dangerous line of work; a line that gets many enterprising men like yourself killed in spectacularly violent fashion in very short order. How many days will it be before you’re found in a dark and dirty alley, disemboweled by some crime lord for having one conversation too many?” Bernardo laid a hand on Lucky’s very uncomfortable shoulder.

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Lucky continued to vibrate nervously in his seat, ready to melt into a puddle and sluice himself away to safety. “Can… I… do something… for you? Or are you just trying to cheer me up?” “Why, Lucky! I am so fond of your charming and amusing antics and you do remind me of a pet rabbit I owned once that died of a heart attack, but your first and foremost profession in life is that of informant, is it not, as reluctant as that may often be?” Lucky attempted a nod that Bernardo barely registered, already continuing. “I know it’s a sad lot in life to be so… well, malleable… that one can be so used to nefarious purpose by criminals or twisted to extort information by the agents of law, as they may be. I pity your rather limited and stifled existence, like a rat trapped in a hat worn by a midget clown, no hope of escaping the lonely blackness and the smell of greasepaint. But such is your lot, as I said. We can’t change that now at this late date, can we?” Bernardo stroked Lucky’s head almost like one would pet a dog. “I am here not to manipulate or harm you… I just seek what meager knowledge you could impart upon us.” “I’m not sure I know anything…” “And if it comes to it, as much as I abhor it, Ching will surely beat it out of you. He is rather good at this, though I know he doesn’t enjoy it, and I disapprove entirely, but, you see, he is much more intent upon this information than I. And I… Well, I can only keep that proverbial dog at bay so long, my friend.” “Well, I do know some things. I mean, I probably overstated my lack of knowing stuff… Hell, I know plenty. I mean, why else would people come to me for information if I didn’t know anything? That’d be bad for business! I mean, information is my game. I’m in the business of knowing, you could say… Where should we start? I’m ready to tell you all sorts of stuff…” “That’s good. I have a few very important questions.”

Bernardo paced back and forth in front of the table, rubbing at his chin, as Ching loosely stood guard behind Lucky, sternly glancing at the other rough bar patrons in silent warning of what their interference would bring. Ching had ordered a small, rather strong tea from the bar.

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Normally, you would not order tea at a pub, but when your pub is also a convenience store and gas station, you can get almost anything, though you definitely might not want it. That may have been part of the supposed charm of the place, the fact that you could get a bag of charcoal, a spool of twine, a bag of chips, six gallons of gas, and three shots of Scotch at two o’clock in the morning. Though Ching just stuck to his steaming tea and Bernardo required nothing while pacing back and forth except for answers to the questions that were coming to him in droves. “What do you know about the Archipelligo kidnapping?” Lucky slunk down into his uncomfortable wooden chair and avoided eye contact, leaning his head down so that all Bernardo could see was shadow and the mop of curly reddish hair on the top of his head. Finally, he peeked up enough so that his eyes and the freckly bridge of his nose were lit up by the few hanging bulbs overhead. “Oh… The thing on TV?” “Yes, that would be the kidnapping in question. Not that I am privy to the understanding that there are many kidnappings in Oberwalz. Last I checked, it was not yet some dangerous city ripped from a Charles Dickens story, ready to consume its young in violent and unfortunate fashion.” “Hey, man… I don’t know anything about any of that. Lost girls, Charles Dickens, whatever. And I don’t know anyone that does. As best as I can tell, nobody’s involved in that, so I don’t know what to tell you. I know everybody… I’d know it if somebody in the business took her, at least for ransom. You don’t pull off something like that without people knowing. This is no pro job and I don’t think it’s for money at all.” Lucky squirmed and his voice cracked as he spoke. Between the oversized suit, the freckles and the curly hair, Lucky looked more like a member of The Archies than he did as a criminal and master snitch. “This isn’t good news, Ching.” Lucky stiffened. “Hey, man, don’t shoot the messenger.” “I’m not interested in you, Wipplestein. The only crime you seem to be a regular perpetrator of is questionable taste in clothing. You should look into a more dignified suit, something silky. Or perhaps you should pick up something in satin.” Bernardo twirled the end of his scarf, paused, and looked at Lucky sympathetically for a moment, being reminded of a whipped dog or, perhaps, a particularly 37

unappetizing Jell-O with an unhappy assortment of fruits and nuts trapped inside. “It’s already a bad sign that Desmond Archipelligo hasn’t been contacted by the alleged kidnappers in the day and half since the incident. Kidnappers aren’t known for their patience, like a 10-for-a-penny record club, come to collect its horrible pound of flesh for something you thought you wanted in a moment of weakness. It tends to work against their well-laid plans of money-making to not actually ask for the money, you see. No, this is looking bad for the case. This isn’t a normal kidnapping… This is something new, something different, something we haven’t even thought of…” Bernardo paused in his pacing and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He felt very tired, rather suddenly. “So, you know nothing at all about Archipelligo?” “The girl? Nothing… The father? He’s a real asshole. Strong-arming people all over the city, getting involved in land-grabs, real estate, deals with dark characters… He’s a one-man mafia in a white collar. I’m not surprised someone would want to get at him. I’d just be afraid that he’d have someone kill me and everyone I’ve ever known for touching what’s his.” “Like his family, for example?” “Hell, I don’t even know if he likes his family, for what it is. I think the wife’s dead already. I never bothered to know why, as it’s not part of my range of knowledge, but I bet there’s something dark there and I don’t want to know about it. He dates models. His daughter is his only heir, that’s about all I know in the family vein. The man is into money and ownership; that I know for sure. I think he cares more about possessing things than anything else. Family probably fits into the category of ‘possessions'.” “Who is he involved with?” Lucky was perking up and forgetting his situation as he was talking shop about the subjects he was comfortable with: intimate knowledge of the criminal underworld and its internal struggles. “None of the small-timers, that’s for sure. If he’s working with anyone, that is… And not just giving orders… Well, then, he’s working with someone big and he’s calling the shots.” Bernardo sat down in one of the horribly uncomfortable faux wooden chairs, mass-produced by AlliGentCo/Gas N’ Go Manufacturing, Ltd., who made them specifically to give one the impression of being in the relative squalor of a down-

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home shit-hole bar, every bit of grime sprayed lovingly onto the exterior of the injection-molded surfaces. He leaned in close to Lucky. “Have you heard anything?” Lucky was thoughtful and took several moments to answer. “I could make a few guesses on what he’s been up to, but it’d just be guessing… I don’t know anything for sure. No one that does talks about it. If they did, they wouldn’t be around for too long. From everything I hear, he’s not the man to mess with. No telling what he’s actually in.” Bernardo sighed and rubbed his fingers anxiously across his forehead. “Have you heard about anyone big or new coming to town? Any names started popping up?” Lucky got very uncomfortable and spoke in nearly a whisper, leaning in as close to Bernardo as he was comfortable with, afraid that the words themselves might leave his mouth and rush to the ears of the one he was talking about. “There’s a name going around. Someone new to Oberwalz… Angosto. That’s all I know… I’ve heard the name, but I have no idea who it is or why he’s so damned important. But he’s got an army and he’s got people scared.” Bernardo leaned back in his chair, taking in all the information. “I’m beginning to feel like many more people know something about this case than I do.” Lucky toyed with the empty beer mug lying on the table. “Well, I’m not one of them.” “Well, we’re going to be in the dark on this one, Ching, like a monkey in a shoebox during an eclipse.” Ching nodded, as serious as ever. “Your next one’s on me, Lucky,” Bernardo said, making reference to the previously-spinning mug, still laying on its side. “It’s the least I can do for the trouble. I wouldn’t want to see you dehydrated by my hand.” “Thanks.” Something didn’t sound entirely genuine about Lucky’s gratitude, but no one could blame him. It was hard being in his position all the time. It was hard ever being in his position.

Bernardo ordered Lucky a fresh beer before leaving, throwing the cash on the bar, and passing back by the table.

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“Hopefully next time we’ll meet under better circumstances.” “Are there ever better circumstances?” Lucky frowned. “No, not really. Not for people like us, my friend. Next time will probably involve a rushed interrogation to find out which mafioso has put out a hit on Channel 6’s top weather man or a rubber hose beating to find out who’s planted a bomb in a robotic duplicate of a prominent city councilman… assuming someone else doesn’t beat me to it.” Bernardo turned to leave, Ching following along behind him, always the stern companion and watchdog. Before reaching the door, Bernardo stopped and looked back toward Lucky, who was nervously hoping this was all over and he could go back to his drinking. “Has anyone else been sniffing around for leads?” Lucky paled slightly at the question, making the freckles stand out even more across his puffy face, and Bernardo and Ching started moving back toward the table. “If I tell you, you won’t like it.” Bernardo smiled like a man who’d spent too much time in a mental asylum. “And, if you don’t tell me, you won’t like it. I can assure of that as well.” Lucky was sure he wasn’t going to like it, whether he told Bernardo or not. Nothing was going to make this situation any better and he was not happy about the whole turn of events. He cringed even before the words left his mouth. He just hoped he didn’t live to regret it… and that he did continue to live. “Quackenbush. He was here.”

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Chapter 4 Junkyard Dogs The drive was quiet and mildly uncomfortable for Bernardo, who couldn’t get Quackenbush off his mind. He spent the twenty minutes riding North on Highway 42 in silence, considering his next move. Hidden a few miles before the Haslono city limits in a heavily-wooded area, the Quackenbush Detective Agency & Auto Salvage was a short ways up a gravel road. Times had not been good for Ed Quackenbush and he had fallen back on auto salvage and running a junkyard to help compensate for major income setbacks in the arena of private investigation. Quackenbush had developed something of a reputation for being an arrogant thug with anger issues. Most people found that kind of person a bit hard to deal with, especially in a work-for-hire relationship, but it was an even greater hardship on his investigatory connections, which became fewer and farther between as time went by. When you’re such a galactic asshole, it puts a hard strain on even the best associations. And, when a large part of your job involves who you know, it ends up leaving you alone, without connections, and running a junkyard to make ends meet. As the stolen sedan pulled into the junkyard, Bernardo could already tell that things wouldn’t go smoothly. They drove through the open gate in the perimeter fence and along a corridor of junked and stacked cars, a rusting and decaying memorial to the bad drivers of Oberwalz County. The walls of crushed autos rose up on each side of them, hedging them into a gauntlet of unknown potential dangers. It was a dark night and the lights around the edge of the compound were harsh and bright, but the metal valley was left full of shadow. The towering walls of wrecked vehicles were pure black with beams of light shining through every hole and crevice, giving the alley a ghostly supernatural feel. Dead ahead lay the well-lit trailer that acted as the office and headquarters of Ed Quackenbush. “I’ll try to handle business as smoothly as possible. Watch out for trouble, but leave Ed to me. I’ll work on shaving that koala, if you get my meaning.” Ching nodded his agreement as he brought the car to a stop in front of the trailer, throwing it into park.

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Bernardo had just unhooked his seat belt when the car lurched downward with a shock and a clanging sound echoing from the roof above. He and Ching managed a shocked glance at each other before the car lifted up off the ground, accompanied by the distant sound of heaving machinery. The chugging engine of a crane strained slightly as they rose up above the stacks of mangled vehicles, dangling above the junkyard in their pilfered sedan. The crane arm turned slowly and the car swung across the yard toward what must have been its final resting place: the maw of a large car compactor lying below, waiting to crush the car and its passengers into a small metal rectangle. Bernardo threw open the door and looked down on the piles of wreckage streaking by below in the patches of light. Ahead he could see a particularly tall pile of cars that looked like the best escape possible. “Ching!” Bernardo started out the door as Ching slid over to follow him out the passenger door. Bernardo quickly crouched down and was over the side, hanging clumsily off the car by the running board. “This isn’t exactly how I thought my night would go, Ching. Even if I had considered seeing Ed…” Bernardo grunted and tried to maintain his grasp on the edge of the car as the pile of wrecked automobiles loomed. “Ed is a pest of the highest order, but his usual repartee doesn’t generally consist of attempted murder. This is as unexpected as the proverbial viper in your lemonade… The man usually has the couth to at least physically assault you in person instead of just having some miscreant crush you.” As the crane swung over the pile of cars, Bernardo released his grip and fell ten feet, straight down, onto the roof of the crushed sedan topping off the pile, desperately grabbing on and trying not to roll off and fall down to the junkyard floor below. In rather agile fashion, Ching swung out the door, dropped down, and landed perfectly next to Bernardo, as lithe on his feet as a cat. He was quickly over the side of the car roof, onto the hood, and swinging over the bumper to the next car below before Bernardo could even stand upright. Bernardo began following him down toward the base of the tower of wreckage, though Ching was gone before he was even halfway down, scurrying out across the pools of darkness to search for the culprit behind their attempted 42

crushing. If it was Ed, Ching would bring him back. If it was a hired hand, Ching would do what Ching does. Bernardo walked through the darkness and piles of twisted metal, car parts, and any number of other mechanical pieces or implements, trying not to trip over the debris and fall onto something sharp and rusty. The small, ancient trailer stood ahead, still a pool of radiance in the blackness of the junkyard. The front, where their stolen car was only minutes before, was back to being a blank slate of dried mud, the ground pitted with tire marks. Bernardo crossed the distance and mounted the four wooden steps up to the trailer door, emblazoned with the rather plain logo of Quackenbush Detective Agency & Salvage. Bernardo threw the door open and stepped inside. Ed Quackenbush was at one of the two desks, which sat front-to-front in the middle of the small main room of the trailer, surrounded by dirty, barely-functional file cabinets bought from business bankruptcy liquidations. He was leaned back in his old, creaking wooden desk chair, feet propped up on the desk, which was covered in stacks of files and loose papers. The other desk sat empty, devoid of paperwork, instead having a small TV set on top, and was accompanied by a large desk chair, in worse repair than many of the yard’s cars and held together by bits of scrap wood and bent nails protruding at strange angles. “Evening, Bernardo… Nice of you to stop by.” Quackenbush was a bulky, though not tall, man. His hair was a fading red crew cut, draining of its color on its way to being grey. He was reaching middle age, carried a paunch, and looked like a high school gym coach, wearing ill-fitting polo shirts tucked into far-too-small polyester shorts or tight slacks. On this day he was particularly dressy in a white short sleeve shirt with gaudy striped tie and khaki pants. “I thought I might see you about some information, old man…” Bernardo stopped and turned, sensing the mountain of flesh now standing in the doorway behind him. The man, if that’s what it really was, looked like a shaved Yeti. He was nearly seven feet tall, 350 pounds, and smiled with what looked like a mouth full of canines. Whatever he lacked in intellect, looks, and personal hygiene, he obviously made up for in size and muscle. “That’s my man, Moose. He’s no Chink kung-fu artist, but he can snap a leg like nobody’s business. Your escape from the shithouse may be short-lived after he’s done with you.” 43

Moose smiled and gave an animalistic grunt before moving forward. Before he could get close enough to touch Bernardo, he stopped with a lurch, a look of shock appearing on his face, a second before he flew backwards out of the trailer door. Ching, having thrown him bodily onto the ground outside, followed out to do his work. Bernardo watched Ching leap away into the blackness before closing the trailer door behind him. “Now that we have a little privacy, I think we were about to talk.” “So, crazy man, you got out of the nuthouse to come talk to me? I’m very honored.” “I wouldn’t be… It was only a few weeks and we both know why I left on such short notice. It definitely wasn’t to make social visits to the outcasts and dregs of Oberwalz. That would be as fruitless for me as trying to teach pandas to sing or lemmings to play flag football.” Quackenbush put his feet down on the ground and looked directly into Bernardo’s eyes or approximately where they should be behind his goggles. “Yeah, well, I don’t know what you’re doing here. I definitely can’t help you with anything.” Despite having them on in all the preceding darkness, Bernardo finally chose that moment to tear off the goggles and make eye contact with Quackenbush. “You sound bitter, Edward. And it suits you, I’d say. Though it continues to make you a lesser man. But many people say you were always a lesser man, from the day you were born to the moment we share now.” As Ed’s temper flared, he stood up from the desk and leaned forward, balancing his weight on one hand, across the desk’s surface to be closer to Bernardo. He gesticulated wildly in anger and thrust his finger at Bernardo to punctuate his points. “You may think you know me and you may think you taught me something! But all I learned from you is that you’re fucking crazy! Huh, nut-boy? You didn’t teach me shit! I learned from you that your secret is you’re fucking nuts and you don’t know what the hell you’re doing!” “Differences in matters of technique are not the reason you ceased to be my protégé…” “Don’t make it sound like I was your boy fuckin’ ward, learning from your fatherly hand! You’re younger than me by a few… We were partners, you asshole. We worked together.”

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Bernardo smiled slightly and sat down in the large, unstable desk chair across from Quackenbush. “We were never partners. I did the thinking and talking and you just beat people with your fists and waved guns at them after you ceased to attempt real detection. Not that it was any great sin, but those were your redeeming qualities, Edward.” “Well, I’m sure that yellow Chinese bastard out there would be happy to know that he’s no equal with you either.” “I’ll have you know that Ching is from the Netherlands… And he drives, as well. Not that Ching is my protégé. He is my driver, bodyguard, right-hand man, pastry chef, and assistant. Much like a partner, in many ways. And he can speak for himself, when he wishes. He knows what he excels at, though, and doesn’t aim for mediocrity in areas in which he has no real aptitude… He also knows how to control his vices.” “How dare you, motherfucker! They never proved shit against me! All the fucking charges were dropped!” Quackenbush was nearly foaming at the mouth and climbing over the desk, nails digging into the varnished wooden surface. “And yet I have no doubt, Edward, that you are, in fact, a pedophile and that girl’s charges against you were completely true.” “Yeah, well, the truth is what you can prove.” “And such is the attitude that ruined our working relationship and prevented me from further association with you… You have no ethics, no class, and you’re a childrapist.” “Fifteen is not a child! And rape implies a lack of consent! She was a consenting adult… And it was never fucking proven!” Quackenbush climbed onto the desk on his knees, screaming to the heavens. “And that is the kind of morally ambiguous point that we’ll have to debate some other time. As I said, I’m here on business.” “Well, I’m not telling you shit, you crazy asshole.” There were several moments of silence, during which a few distant noises could be heard in the junkyard outside, thuds and slaps. Quiet was soon followed by the trailer door opening and Ching returning, looking none the worse for wear, already brushing off his jacket and straightening his cap.

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Bernardo smiled bitterly. “Well, then… I guess we can finally get started and see how the new help compares to the old help, eh, Edward, old boy?”

Ed Quackenbush cringed. His lip was bloodied and more of the same was running from his nose in a thick trickle. He hunched over slightly in his chair. Normally under this type of interrogation, the subject would be bound, but Ching was too fast for him and everyone in the room knew it. He couldn’t escape if he wanted to and Edward was too stubborn to leave. There weren’t even any implements used on him. It was just Bernardo, Ed, and Ching’s hands. And that was all there generally needed to be, though this was far from Bernardo’s general operating practice. But Ed refused to break out of sheer hatred for Bernardo. It was the type of shattered relationship that would make this information-gathering excursion an impossible feat. Quackenbush and Bernardo’s partnership had gone well enough for several years, there being a mutual eagerness to make their names in the investigative world. Ed hadn’t yet taken on the level of brusqueness that eventually destroyed their relationship and was the strong, stern arm of the investigative team. Bernardo wasn’t the “brains of the operation” that the cliché so commonly noted about partnerships, but he was the thinker, the inventive partner, and the one whose ideas were so uncommonly right while being unbelievably unlikely. Ed knew there was a certain magic to his method and they gained a certain notoriety for their odd skills, but it soon became apparent that Ed would become known only as the thuggish henchman and Bernardo the ingenious mastermind. The oversight was never Bernardo’s, who always gave equal credit to the partnership as a whole, but a certain childish bitterness set in as the accolades always heaped on Bernardo’s side of the team. He grew more distant and violent in his technique, drinking and acting rather poorly socially, turning his already abrasive personality into something legendary. Finally, he broke with Bernardo entirely. Strangely, Bernardo never chastised Ed heavily. He was always more brotherly than Ed had ever noticed and he never pushed Ed away. Quackenbush had left in a fit of anger and only his behavior since had managed to incense

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Bernardo, between attempting to steal cases, sabotage his operations, and doing very little to help the credibility they had built together. Statutory rape cases, for example, will do that to one’s good name. So Ed was left nearly bankrupt, taking only the most base and tawdry of cases, supplemented by auto salvage, to pay the bills. “Are you ready to tell me what you know now? I’m only going to ask you to elucidate me on the details you possess in the Archipelligo case once more. We know that you’re involved. A man such as yourself could not refuse the monetary compensation and notice that would accompany the case’s solution. This is your final chance to allow us to do our job and save that girl’s life. After that, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to take drastic measure. I think we both know that you don’t want me to do that…” Quackenbush spat a mouthful of saliva, tinged red, at Bernardo. “Go fuck yourself, freak.” “Ching…” Bernardo swiveled in the broken desk chair as Ching took up his position, standing behind Quackenbush. Bernardo picked up the receiver of an ancient rotary phone and dialed a number. Ed Quackenbush watched, partially indifferent but also anxious to understand what was going on. “Robert Hineliker, please.” Bernardo turned in the chair, leaned back, and smiled a dagger at Ed. “Hello, Robert. Bernardo Walterhaus… Yes, I’m out… Well, not the way they’d hoped… Out through a window… Yes. Entirely safe and nary a bone broken… Three stories, I believe.” Bernardo spun the chair once and laughed. “Yes, Rob… That is funny… I hate to bother you at work, but I wondered if you could do me a rather large favor. Could you freeze some bank accounts for me?” Bernardo leaned back in the chair. “Of course… It’s the Archipelligo case… Oh, you saw that? Well, I’m working on it right now… Ed Quackenbush… Yes, one and the same… He did that to you? Why am I not surprised…” Bernardo made a disapproving clicking noise through his teeth as he looked at Ed. “A few weeks, perhaps? If such is your professional estimation… Yes. Four eggs and a pint of coleslaw… Season it while it’s warm… Thanks.” Ed looked rather grim and tensed in his seat, but Ching’s fingers were already tapping on the back of the chair, waiting for him to move. “Well, I hope you have a piggy bank hidden somewhere, Edward, as you will certainly not have access to 47

your bank accounts for a while… You didn’t have any bills to pay, did you? I mean, I’m sure this place brings in a tidy bundle, what with the rising price of scrap steel.” Ed fumed. “You son of a bitch! I’m going to kill you!” “Well, perhaps you should think more about what I’m going to do next instead of your petty anger issues. Look to your future, Edward!” Quackenbush just snarled. “Well, my next call will be to a friend of mine who will make sure that your last ten years of tax returns are audited, assuming you actually bothered to pay them instead of spending your money on cheap whores and cheaper liquor. How does that sound, Edward?”

Bernardo mulled over what Quackenbush had finally given them as they waited outside. He had, of course, finally given in after more financial ruination was heaped upon him and his business interests, his greatest fear inflicted upon him, revealing that he was indeed on the case to attempt to regain his name in the detection industry and make enough money to save his flagging business, something Bernardo had most certainly prevented from ever happening. Bernardo felt bad for Ed and somewhat guilty that he was going to ruin the man, but he was the world’s greatest detective and this case had been tailor-made for him, not some two-bit hood who thought that he could extort information on the side from his day job of towing cars. Quackenbush hadn’t managed to collect much information either, as there seemed to be no strong leads to the case at all, just as Bernardo had already found through his own channels. Very few people had anything to say about Louissa Marianna Archipelligo or Pepé Blackwell. It was like they just disappeared from the face of the earth. Quackenbush had been trying to follow the trail of people involved with the Archipelligo family, most especially those strange underworld ties that Desmond Archipelligo had developed over the years, an interesting tactic at the very least and fairly advanced for Quackenbush. Though Bernardo doubted that any of them would ever cross Archipelligo, but leads were few and he was going to look into every possible one. Moose was still unconscious across the hood of a burned-out Gremlin and Quackenbush was something of a wreck at the moment, at least financially and emotionally,

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weeping softly in the trailer. They seemed to be out of commission for the time being, so Bernardo could get back to the investigation, hopefully uninterrupted and undeterred by Ed, Lombardo, or the Mayor. The cab that Bernardo and Ching had called for finally pulled into the yard. Its window rolled down and a face appeared out of the darkened interior, a young black man in a floppy plaid cap. “God damn! Bernardo, man! I can’t believe it’s you! When dispatch told me, I swore it was a prank! Shit! Jump in, my brother!” Bernardo and Ching climbed into the rear of the bright yellow cab, Ching giving the driver an elaborate handshake. Reggie “Sugah” Brown had worked with Bernardo and Ching in the past, driving them when necessary and helping out on a variety of small but very exciting cases. And it helped Bernardo to have someone with Sugah’s availability and driving skills on his side whenever the proverbial chips were against them. It also gave Sugah something exciting to do, which he severely lacked in his rather dull life of carting people around Oberwalz. And Sugah was definitely the man to go to: no one knew the roads and back-roads like him and no one could get you there faster, not to mention his array of odd connections that allowed for many strange needs to be fulfilled in short order. “Well, Bernardo, where we going to hit this time? What kind of adventure you got up your sleeve?” “Sugah, we are going to solve the Archipelligo kidnapping!” Bernardo was adamant in his resolution to complete this task and bring the whole affair to a quick solution, before this kidnapping could spiral out of hand. Sugah gave Ching an energetic high-five. “Out of sight! Where to, baby?” “Up Highway 15, North of Shutterset East… We have a castle to storm.”

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Chapter 5 Castle Kreuschfach “So how’d you get out, man?” Sugah’s eyes were visible in the rear-view mirror as he chatted with Bernardo, illuminated by the headlights trailing behind him. “Well, I jumped through a window and landed in a trailer full of pork chops.” Bernardo toyed with his seatbelt and smiled at his matter-of-fact statement in the darkness of the back seat. He could hear Sugah’s smile in his voice. “That old escape… If I had known, I could have helped you out.” Ching shook his head silently. Bernardo translated the motion into words. “Ching never would have involved you in our dangerous little plan, my friend. Plus, it was a matter of opportunity, timing, and seeing all the signs. I just happened to notice all the hidden portents and took that opportunity to leap out a window. Ching just happened to be there to catch me. Coincidence? I think not… But it was definitely a gamble, one which I hope not to repeat anytime soon.” “Well, next time I’ll drive the getaway car.” Bernardo smiled. “Next time. Your benevolence will be graciously accepted.” They were heading quickly around Highway 42, making its broad Northeast circle around Oberwalz. They were about ten miles outside of Fog, crossing the Smotny Bridge over the West Oberwalz River, which meandered below them in the darkness, when Sugah finally asked the question, that one question for which Bernardo currently had far too few answers. “So, my man… What exactly is going on with this kidnapped girl case?” Sugah’s eyes were thirsty for an answer, glaring back at Bernardo from the rear-view mirror. Bernardo closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he began. “Well, upon my escape from the Lombardo Institute, Ching and I were on the case. I consulted with Mr. Archipelligo, who was under the most firm impression that his employee Pepé Blackwell was the culprit, tracked down Pepé’s address and estimated the time that he disappeared, which pointed toward his involvement or knowledge, and consulted with his family, who I felt strongly were honest and forthright in that their son would not have willingly 50

involved himself in the plot and therefore he must be a victim himself. I later received information on Mr. Archipelligo’s criminal associations and then spoke with Edward to see why he was involving himself, what he knew, and to make sure he wouldn’t be surprising me in the near future, most likely catching Ching and I in the crossfire between thugs or kidnappers and his… Moose.” Bernardo seemed lost in thought for a moment before continuing. “Yes… So, Edward was unable to find any information about Miss Archipelligo as well, but had been looking into Mr. Archipelligo’s criminal history for a potential kidnapper, though I have my doubts about one of his ‘employees’ crossing him. The word is that he’s a bit brutal and does not suffer any impudence from his underlings.” “So, who’s he supposed to be involved with?” “Well, it seems that Desmond Archipelligo has been having some sort of dealings with Madame Kreuschfach, meetings of some sort and the like, Edward said. And if he’s dealing with that woman, something dirty must be going on, something that Louissa might be involved in… or used as a pawn in. Perhaps Archipelligo knows exactly where his daughter is and he is dealing with Kreuschfach for her return.” “Oh, shit. Now I see what you mean about ‘storming a castle’.” Sugah’s eyes were back on the road and didn’t stray again for a good while.

“We’re getting close.” Heading up State Highway 15, due North of Oberwalz, Bernardo was paying close attention to the small dirt or gravel roads branching off to the sides. After passing Route 4, running into Shutterset East, the roads had thinned out and there wasn’t so much as a deer path to either side of the road. There was very little this far North until the old trucking road running East to the Coif Bridge and on to Nipson. And, after that, nothing at all until Northrut, but that was over an hour away. The road they were looking for was somewhere very close. About four miles North of Route 4, there it was in the underbrush: a well-worn and pitted gravel road. “Stop!” Sugah saw the turn as the taxi sped past and turned the steering wheel hard while laying on the brakes, spinning the car around perfectly to face the direction from which

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they had come. He slowly pulled the cab onto the gravel road and looked to the back seat for further guidance. “So now what?” “Well, from what I’ve heard, the castle is directly North of Shutterset East… That means we’ve got several miles of gravel road before we reach the castle grounds.” “Right… I’ve got one bad feeling about this shit.” Sugah didn’t look forward to the drive ahead. Not so much because of the distance as it was the lack of knowledge about what lay ahead. Bernardo didn’t blame him either. Much had been said and rumored of Castle Kreuschfach over the years, though it was assumed much of it was just the idle talk of people who’d never seen the castle, much less been inside. What was known about the castle was mainly historical in nature and not exactly up-to-date. Herr Kreuschfach had brought the castle over to America from Bavaria, brick by brick, and reconstructed it back in the early 1920’s. One generally must question the motives of strange Germans moving castles to what were then rural areas in isolated regions of America. Still, no one is exactly sure how Kreuschfach chose the area to make his new home. Perhaps it was the rock-bottom land values, the burgeoning Catheter Mines, the quickly-growing city itself, or the fact that he really didn’t know any better, being from Germany. But he bothered to bring the damned thing, so there it sat. It would have been an impressive landmark, were it not fifteen miles from the then-center of Oberwalz and secluded on a large enough tract of land that most people didn’t even know it existed and those that did would never be able to get close enough to see it. Herr Kreuschfach secured his land like a fortress, built elaborate grounds surrounding the castle, and began doing business in Oberwalz, staking his claim on most of the money that would roll into Oberwalz industry during the coming decades. Kreuschfach was briefly involved with agriculture before moving on to buy a stake in the new catheter mines (not to be confused with Catheter Mines, the corporation and main catheter interest in town) growing up all along Oberwalz’s Northwest industrial district, where new mills, factories, and warehouses were being built every month, driving out the old industrial centers on the mountain with the discovery of fresh and more easily-reached resources closer to the city. Kreuschfach exploited the workers of the area to the best of his ability and increased his fortune, which his family 52

had gained in the German wig market, soon making him the wealthiest man in a ten-county radius and, later, the region. Part of that money was invested in candy-making and more was squandered trying to build an immense radio tower, which collapsed during a rainstorm four months later. His next pet project featured the breeding of an army of goats and was equally a failure, though it lacked the radio tower’s spectacular collapse. This string of financial misfortune continued while also drawing in funds from the legitimate and money-making Kreuschfach enterprises. The Kreuschfach family would never be paupers, to be sure, but much of their fortune ended up in a wide array of most strange and pathetic endeavors, bleeding the family coffers enough to have afforded rich and happy lives to dozens of other families, but leaving the Kreuschfachs only slightly less wealthy. When Herr Kreuschfach died, the family went on, but the money dwindled away until Madame Kreuschfach, as his daughter came to be known by both the criminal and business worlds, took over the reins of the family finances shortly after the death of her young mother, under very questionable circumstances. She ran most of her business out of the family castle, still a well-guarded stronghold and a secret place, away from the eyes of wandering locals and nosy lawmen. Whatever nefarious deeds she committed were done in relative secrecy and those involved in the deeds (and any others who so much as knew of them) were deathly silent on the subject. Some whispered knowledge of strange goings-on at the castle, but those were nothing more than rumors, unsubstantiated and often beyond belief. Sugah’s drive up the road toward the strange and unknown keep took some 20 minutes over the rough and uneven ground of the decaying gravel drive. In the darkness of the night, distant lights could be seen as the castle came into view through the hills and few scattered trees, blocks of blacker darkness in the night sky, dotted with pinpricks of light. Sugah slowed down as the car rounded a corner, through the trees surrounding the castle grounds. Through the trees ahead, headlights flashed on, a car blocking the gravel drive dead ahead. As Sugah came to a sudden stop, there were already men with rifles slinking out of the darkness, closing in from behind and in front of the car. “Oh, shit… I think we’ve hit some trouble, B.” 53

Bernardo sat up straight and looked around the car. “Oh, dear. I think we’re being molested by hooligans.” Ching took off his seatbelt purposefully and started to open the door before Bernardo grabbed his arm. “Ching… If you go out there, they’ll gun you down like a second-rate washer and drier set. Stick close, old friend, and we’ll see if we can’t get out of this pickle with a little of the old Walterhaus magic.” The doors were torn open and rifle barrels were pointed into their faces as they exited the cab, arms raised and trying to get some glimpse of their captors, backlit by the car’s headlights. Six armed men surrounded them as they were pushed against the cab and strongly frisked. Ching reacted badly from being manhandled so roughly and twisted the responsible thug’s arm, sending him sprawling to his knees and shrieking in pain, but a rifle butt struck in on one side, into his ribs, and a gun barrel was placed firmly against his temple on the other. “Ching!” Ching relaxed and restrained his violent desires at Bernardo’s request. The frisking finally finished and, their captors satisfied, they were forced over into the brightness of the two vehicles’ overlapping headlights. Two other men stepped over from the blackness surrounding the other car: one a tiny egg-shaped man in a blue suit and tie and the other a fairly large fellow with a sloping brow, far too much hair, and an idiotic grin pasted across his face, toting a bulky machine gun. “Well… What do we have here? Looks like somebody took a wrong turn on the way to the slumber party.” He stared up into Ching’s eyes from the middle of the tall Asian’s ribcage. “Looks like Mr. Chinese over here is already wearing his pajamas.” The other men laughed at his very slight joke. Bernardo was not impressed by the hired help at Castle Kreuschfach. “I’ll have you know that Ching is from the Netherlands. Good people; excellent food.” The man turned quickly and stomped over to peer closely at Bernardo. “And over here we’ve got Mr. Fruitcake is his Halloween costume.” The miniscule character got his swarthy face as close to Bernardo’s as was possible at his height, lifting up the goggles that covered the detective’s eyes. “That’s a big fucking hat there, fella. Looks like you need a feather for it… Though that’d be more suitable for the nigger, wouldn’t it?” 54

“Say what now?” Sugah started to move toward the little man before a gun barrel jabbed into his face forced him back. The small man glibly waved him back, returning his attention to Bernardo’s clothes. “I’ll get to you in a minute, darkie… What’s up with those pants? And that scarf? And the fucking Last Of The Mohicans boots?” Bernardo looked down at his wardrobe. “I was trying to make a fashion statement. I rather liked it when I threw it together. It’s sort of a ‘swashbuckling Laurence of Arabia meets a World War I flying ace’ kind of feel. It’s rather freeing, I find. I can tell you it’ll likely be the rage sometime in the next decade.” “For fuck’s sake…” The mean-spirited little bastard wandered over to Sugah to continue his inspection. “And Mr. Cab-Driver-Who-Can’t-Shut-The-Fuck-Up Blackie. You might get in less trouble if you learned not to run that mouth, boy.” The rifleman standing behind Sugah forced him hard to his knees with a strike of his gun butt to the back of Sugah’s leg, the grass grinding dark stains into his jeans. “Hope that wasn’t your driving leg, asshole!” Following the egg-shaped man’s lead again, the henchmen all matched his deranged cackle by bursting into flat, forced laughter. “Now let’s get these bastards inside, lock them up, and get back to our posts… They may have friends on the way.” At gunpoint, the three were lead through the darkness toward the gates of Castle Kreuschfach.

The three had been shoved roughly through dark stone corridors, barely lit by the glow of torches and candles in sconces hanging from the cold walls or in wrought iron chandeliers dangling from the high arched ceilings of the cavernous rooms. “Jesus Christ… I thought this shit went out of style in the Dark Ages.” Sugah’s outburst was met with a vicious kick from behind, sending him tripping forward onto the cold stone castle floor. “I thought I told you to shut the fuck up… And this shit is vintage.” The tiny man had a hell of a kick to him and an even bigger mouth. What he lacked in height he attempted to make up for in sheer ferocity. Many people would have

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attributed it to the colloquial “Napoleon complex,” but he was an asshole. He always had been an asshole and still would be, even if he were seven feet tall. That’s just the way he was. And that’s why he was in charge, because, for the type of work he did, a leader of men needed to be a vicious dog. Even if that dog were a teacup poodle. The trio grimly soldiered on, surrounded by their six captors: the little man, his grinning idiot second, and four of the guards, all armed with a variety of rifles and keeping a close eye on them. The current numbingly similar hallway that they wandered down opened up into a giant room, a cavern lit with the orange glow of fires below its steel mesh walkways, running circles around the room’s circumference. Bernardo and Sugah were shoved up to the railing, followed by a very unhappy Ching, all of them peering down into the abyss just below them, a drop that seemed like hundreds of feet. The small man grabbed a dangling chain and, jingling it with a pendulum-like swing, closed in on the three of them, murder in his eyes. “It looks like the end of the line for you fuckers…”

As they hung over the vat of bubbling brown liquid, Bernardo had to wonder how things had come to this. Actually, he was mainly thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches, but the thought of their current situation had crossed his mind during the process of being strung up over the vat. On a catwalk far below them, surrounding the vat, the angry little man in the blue suit roamed back and forth barking orders to the guards, who scurried off like ants to secure the castle’s perimeter. His seemingly retarded assistant stood nearby and waited, the remote to the mechanical pulley from which they hung ready in his hands, the first real sign of actual activity that he’d shown as of yet, other than to hold a gun and laugh like an idiot. Bernardo, Ching, and Sugah all hung from a chain, which ran through the winch, the ropes that bound their hands threaded over a hook at the chain’s end. The whole device was aimed directly over the giant metal vat, which seethed with hot liquid, kept at a near boil by the fires beneath it. Pipes ran out from the underside, gas lines to

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feed the burner nestled underneath the vat. The sides of the vat were covered in large clockwork cogs to move and tilt the huge urn, whose lip was pinched at one edge into a pitcher-like shape. The whole apparatus looked like something from a iron-smelting facility. Finally, after some discussion amongst the men below, the control was activated and, with a jolt, they began lowering toward the bubbling cauldron. Bernardo craned his neck around to try to get a look at his hanging compatriot. “I think we’re in a most dire situation, Ching!” Nearly thirty feet above the vat, the pulley stopped their descent with another sharp jerk. The heat from the boiling mass below enveloped them and they began to sweat like fat men in a sauna. “Chocolate, Mr. Walterhaus…” The little man screamed at them over the din of machinery and the rumble of the cooking confection below. “And pretty soon you’re going to be swimming in it! What do you fuckers think about that?” Bernardo perked up at the mention of his name. “Ah, so you know me, then?” “Well, you wouldn’t be getting this show if I didn’t… I would have had you shot out front.” “Well, then thank you for your courtesy, Mister…” “Sid. I’m Sid. This crazy bastard…” He turned and looked at the idiot still cradling the control box for the pulley like a child. “This is Morty. And we will be ending your fucking existence real soon, though I’m sure a whole lot of people will regret not being here to see it.” Sugah turned his head as far as possible toward Bernardo, though they couldn’t quite see each other. “This is some fucked up shit, B.” “Sorry for getting you involved, Sugah. I never would have figured this castle for having ancient chocolate vats used expressly for the purposes of torture. I’ll really have to re-evaluate my thinking about castles… This is worse than the time we were stuck in the enormous terrarium and left to be devoured by a gigantic turtle.” “Any last words, Walterhaus?” Before Sid could finish the sentence, Morty was already manhandling the controller, ready to press the button. “Well, that’s a terrible suit and you look like a Weeble. Is that what you had in mind?” Sid fumed and turned to Morty. “Do it.” “Zztop!” 57

Morty and Sid turned with a wince. Morty even went so far as to drop the control box and slink backward, the idiotic grin leaving his face very quickly. “Madame Kreuschfach!” Sid did his best bowing and scraping for the small redheaded woman, no taller than him, who had silently entered through the metal door behind them. “Vat are you dooink, Zid?” The little woman shimmied into the room, her legs somewhat bound together by the restrictively tight and unflattering vinyl dress that extended down her body to her ankles, maintaining an hourglass figure by sheer force, if nothing else. It covered her from collar to foot in black plastic and the only thing that was left uncovered were her feet, her weathered face, appearing to be at least sixty years old, and the shockingly bright red hair atop her head, some kind of decorative comb wedged into the back which had something feathery attached to it that protruded from her head like the decoration of some silentera Indian warrior. Her eyes were round black circles, the thin glasses she wore blocking out her ocular cavities entirely, and Bernardo had to admire her style, as her glasses were awfully similar to his beloved motorcycle goggles. She looked contemptuously at Sid, taking a long puff on the cigarette in the long black cigarette holder dangling from her lips. Sid, of course, was panicked, desperately thinking of how he’d manage to get out of this one. “I’m terribly, horribly sorry, Madame. I’m a very stupid man and I hope you won’t kill me or make me into candy.” “You zhould be zorry, Zid. I tolt you nevah to keel a prizonah vhile I am avay.” “I… I didn’t think you’d be back for days.” “Vell, I zhortened my treep to take cahr of zome beezness. Nhaw get out ov my zight.” Sid rushed from the room, ready to be as far away from Madame Kreuschfach as possible, before she decided to do something very horrible to him. “Ah’m ferry zorry vor ziss, Meester Vahltahaas. I vill be baak zhortly to tortcha you bevore I keel you. I apologize vor ziss lock of etiquette an Zid’s paat.” “It’s fine, Madame. I consider it no slight on your evil genius.”

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“Danke. Morty…” Morty loped out of the room as quickly as possible, followed by Madame Kreuschfach at the best pace she could keep in her tiny vinyl gown. It was only a moment before Bernardo turned his head. “Well, gentlemen… Now it’s time for our daring escape.”

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Chapter 6 The Other Great Escape “Yes, not very good at all…” Bernardo began to strain himself as his hands grew slippery with sweat and the ropes around his wrists began to loosen, requiring him to still desperately hold on while trying to wriggle free, not an easy feat by any standard. “We’ll be up to our necks in deadly chocolate soon if we don’t find a way out of this… Ching, can we swing to safety?” Ching pulled up on the ropes, testing the slack around his wrists. “Yea, suh. I cun mek tha jump.” “Well, shit… As long as we get the hell out of here, I’m okay with anything, baby. Sugah is already chocolate. He don’t need another coat.” Bernardo and Sugah following Ching’s lead, the three started kicking out in unison, building up momentum, swinging back and forth like a fleshy pendulum at the end of the length of chain. They grunted with exertion and Ching began to work his hands out of the ropes, dangling from them voluntarily by only the tight grip of his fingers. There was immense danger in all this as the ropes grew more slippery from the sweat induced by the tremendous billowing of heat coming off the cauldron of chocolate below. It wasn’t just that they could easily slip their bonds and fall into the chocolate, dying a quick, terrible, scalding death. No, they could just as easily slip out while swinging and fall onto the lip of the cauldron, the pipes, or the stone floor, snapping their bones like toothpicks. Neither was an acceptable option, so the three of them had to make it to the large free-standing control unit for the chocolate-pouring machinery, whose wiring harness extended up a metal pole nearly forty feet straight up before being diverted in every direction that there was some kind of mechanical device, like a web of tangled metal hoses. That pole would be their savior, if only they could reach it. Rings of metal walkways circled the cauldron and chocolate molding machinery, going around the circumference of the giant round room in layers up the high walls, a few catwalks crossing the diameter far above in the void, a cylinder-like cavern which surely must have run from the top of the castle, where exhaust fans pulled the hot air out into the night sky, down to the floor below, over which they dangled. 60

Finally, as the three worked themselves close enough to the wiring-wrapped metal pole looking like an industrialized tree trunk, Ching released his grip and grappled gracefully onto the structure, swinging around it. Waiting for the next swing back, Ching watched and held his arm out at the ready for Bernardo, who began to slip his bonds on the return swing. As Bernardo reached the end of the chain’s next arc back, he released, realizing too late that the chain had not traveled as far without the weight of all three men on it. He flapped in mid-air like a bird learning to fly and began to plunge downwards, Ching catching his arm and hauling him up to the wires at the last possible moment. “Thank you, Ching. I was nearly a dead man, yet again.” Before any more could be said, Sugah hurtled back with as much speed as he could and released his grip, coming in far too low, possibly the result of Sugah’s extreme sweatiness, making him wish yet again that he hadn’t worn the long sleeve shirt and jean vest that day. Ching grappled the pole with his legs and fell back, hanging upside down, low enough to catch Sugah’s hands. There was a brief moment that Sugah hung on before the combined sweat of Sugah and Ching’s palms caused him to slip and fall away, landing hard on the top of the control unit below, his legs rolling off the side. “Reggie!” Sugah was momentarily dazed before finally looking up, lucid. “I’m okay…” His legs scrambled for purchase to climb back onto the top of the device. It was unfortunately at this moment that, hearing noise, four guards burst through the door at the lowest level on the pouring room floor, firing their assault rifles and submachine guns in short controlled bursts towards the escapees’ vantage on the pole and the top of the control unit. Sugah scrambled again, his feet crushing buttons and throwing levers wildly as he rolled his body back over the top of the unit, avoiding a few shots that tore through the steel body of the controller. Ching, righting himself, silently pointed Bernardo toward the metal walkway several feet below them. Bernardo got one foot onto the railing and leapt over, falling and rolling on the hard metal grating but remaining relatively safe from the gunfire. Ching, of course, was much 61

more graceful and landed on his feet, dropping immediately to his stomach and rolling underneath the railing. Ching extended his arm downward to Sugah, who stood on the control unit’s top and jumped up amidst the hail of gunfire to get a grip on Ching’s hand. This time there was no slippage. Ching lifted Sugah up to the walkway above as shots ripped by, nearly piercing the anxious cabbie. While all this was going on, something odd and loud was occurring below, obviously triggered by some misdeed of Sugah’s scrambling feet. The cauldron began to turn and prepare itself for some part of the pouring process that the room had not been set up for on this particular day (or this decade, as they really had no clue how long it had been since the castle had produced candy), made quickly very evident when it tipped forward, pouring a thick stream of bubbling, steaming chocolate over its lip onto the lowered floor at the middle of the room. Normally, this wouldn’t be a dire matter but, being an illegal operation mainly for the edification of Madame Kreuschfach and not strictly for the regular manufacture of candy, safety codes had not been followed in the construction of the room and, without any drainage, the floor began to fill with the molten confection. This was most distressing to the guards, who attempted to scream and run away from the brown deluge, but were caught in the scalding wave, up to their ankles. They screamed as they tried to move on, but the tide rose and their legs buckled in pain, throwing them on their hands and knees in the burning thick liquid. One immediately succumbed and sunk into the increasing depths, another trying vainly to crawl forward in tears before meeting the same fate, and the other two scrambled up and down again as they tried to run back up the steps from the slick, burning horror. Soon, they were severely burned and covered head to foot in chocolate. The first collapsed on the steps, chocolate rising halfway up his thighs and the other finally fell still, lying on the metal grating near the door out of the room, safe from the sugary tide but no longer alive to appreciate it. Bernardo realized what a particularly horrible way to go it was and how sad it was that it had ended this way for those poor faceless henchmen, as he was no killer nor did he like to watch others die. But fate had intervened yet again in 62

his favor and he would not stop to think too hard about the toll it wrought when there was so much more left to be done. After finding the appropriate set of steel steps leading downwards to the lowest-level doorway which Madame Kreuschfach had exited the room from and the bodies laid next to cooling, Bernardo was finally close enough to see the cooling chocolate shells that now encased the men, frighteningly accurate in their mockery of the human form. He shuddered to himself as they pulled open the metal door and exited as quickly as possible before more attention was drawn to the commotion that had taken place. “Shouldn’t we be heading out at the top level to get back to the car?” Sugah seemed rather concerned about continuing onward, most likely because he had recently been nearly shot and was not prone to desire more of the same. “Sorry, Sugah, but there is definitely more than meets the eye in this place and I must know where the proverbial cats are cradled before we can make our escape cleanly. I won’t force you to stay with us, of course, but I’d suggest that you remain with us for the purposes of safety.” Sugah was quiet for a moment before finally breaking into a grin. “I trust you, man. You’ve never got me killed yet!”

The three men snuck through the halls deep in the belly of the ancient castle as the noise of a raised alarm began to cry out somewhere in the distance. They were being as wary as possible in these dark, dank passageways running through the lowest depths of the former German estate, but they had not yet seen any signs of life that would require avoidance. Stones that must have been quarried thousands of miles away, assembled, deconstructed, carried across the ocean and then carefully reassembled made up the moist walls and floor, cold and wet from being buried in this dank countryside hole. It was all slightly mildewed and stank like an unwashed bath towel after sitting for the better part of a century in this recess in the ground, closed off from the outside and kept in the dark. This was the atmosphere that permeated the lower dungeons of the castle, away from the

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warmth and fresh air of the huge chocolate room that was the center shaft down through the various layers and floors of the huge structure. Bernardo really had to wonder why it had been moved here in the first place, as it was obviously a tremendously expensive and fairly foolish expenditure that would have surely been more than it was worth no matter the sentimentality attached. Whatever value the castle had possessed obviously wouldn’t justify the huge expense of dragging it across the globe and reconstructing such an incredibly large and complex structure. And, as they peeked into several rooms, they noticed that much of the building had been relatively untouched for many years. Much of it was dusty and abandoned, though Bernardo swore that he could hear something nearby, the noise of someone banging metal implements together.

Bernardo stuck his head into the large, open room first. He was leading this expedition and if something horrible was waiting inside to rip them apart, he’d be damned if someone else was going to walk in on it. All he could see immediately was the back of a man in a white lab coat and some kind of elaborate machinery attached to large metal plates, around one foot deep, lying across the open floor. The man in the lab coat seemed to be muttering to himself obsessively as he did some kind of work inside the incredibly large metal pans. He was leaned over into its midst, packing something bundled with wires into the middle of one tray, before picking up a steaming bucket and paint brush and painting a thick substance onto whatever was inside the tray. Bernardo moved into the room quietly, followed by Ching and Sugah, trying to get a better look at what was going on in this rather large warehouse-like expanse, which was beginning to look like a laboratory as Bernardo got a better look around at the various apparatuses cluttering the room’s center, away from the stacks of crates. The man in the white coat turned around and jumped back with a start, falling into the pan he was working in. He stood back up quickly, his hands and coat now besmirched

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by the brown paint, which seemed to be chocolate, which marked him in large gooey smudges. “Who are you and what are you doing in here?” The other three exchanged looks back and forth, unsure exactly what to say. Finally Bernardo spoke up. “Greetings, sir. We’re with the castle’s security division and were just wondering if you’d seen anything strange today…” “Not until you came in here… I don’t think I know you three.” “Very interesting! What exactly are you doing here, Mister…?” “Doctor Hutchins… And I’m working on the rabbit for Madame Kreuschfach. It’s got to go out tomorrow for the ransom.” “Ah, yes… The ransom. Very interesting.” Bernardo nudged his elbow at Ching, who proceeded to stroll around to the other side of Dr. Hutchins. The Doctor was still standing very closely to what appeared to be two large metal molds, formed into large concave shapes, filled with brown and grey substances and what appeared to be some kind of mechanical timer. “So, this is regarding the Archipelligo ransom, then, Doctor?” Hutchins looked incredibly confused by the question. “No… Archipelligo was paid to stay out of this. Madame Kreuschfach and Archipelligo agreed not to interfere with each other.” This time Sugah felt the need to clarify. “Excuse me, Doc, but what exactly are we ransoming here?” Yet again Dr. Hutchins looked at him rather blankly. “City hall… Who did you say you were again? I don’t recognize you and I’m not sure you’re supposed to be in here.” Ching grabbed the Doctor by the shoulder, holding him very firmly in place. “What the hell are you doing to me? You’re hurting me!” Bernardo leaned in very close to Dr. Hutchins and was about to speak when the doors behind them burst open. When they spun around, they saw Sid and Morty, heavily-armed, followed by the waddling Madame Kreuschfach, still puffing away on a cigarette. “Vell, vhat haf ve heah?” Sid and Morty spread out, covering the room with their guns. “I zee zat chu haf com acroz my leetle plan. Mozt unfurchunat fur yu.” “Come again?” 65

“I zaid zat ziss es ah moost unfurchunate hoppening fur yu, Mistear Valterhaas.” “Oh, I see… Coming across your little plan and whatnot? Something about rabbits ransoming City Hall? Seems a little far-fetched to me. I’m sure that their policy is to never negotiate with terrorists and I’m sure that applies to rabbits as well.” “Naw, yu fuul. My plahn iz zis: fell zee goyant chocolat robbit mit zee exsploseeves. Zen vee blaw up zee City Hal if vee are note pad. Understaynd?” “I think I follow you, dear woman… Though I’m not sure where you got that horrendous accent.” “Mein familie izz Germann.” “Yes, Madame Kreuschfach, but you were born and raised here, in Oberwalz County, as a matter of fact.” Madame Kreuschfach’s face took on the same look as someone you generally see in a doctor’s office, being given some sort of invasive examination, the kind where a bodily orifice is receiving the most un-tender care one can imagine. Looking substantially tortured, she hung her head in defeat before finally responding to Bernardo. “Fine, I can talk without the accent, you crazy little bastard. But people tend not to take you seriously when you dress in vinyl and live in a castle if you don’t talk with some sort of Eurotrash accent… Believe me, I’m not doing this for attention. I just want to be taken seriously as a woman and a businessperson.” “But you’re making a giant chocolate rabbit filled with… Is that C-4? You’re filling a rabbit with C-4 and ransoming the city?” “Yes. But you knew that already and that’s why you’re here!” The look on Bernardo’s face was mildly quizzical but impassive, showing no real understanding of anything she was saying. “That is why you’re here, right?” She looked over at Sid, questioningly. “Sid, he is here because of the plan, right?” “Um… I don’t know.” “What, you didn’t bother to check? You didn’t ask any fucking questions? You were just going to let them boil in some chocolate and never ask why they were here? No? Not once were you going to say ‘Hey, guys, what were you looking for?’ You were just going to kill them and then assume they were here about the rabbit… What are you here for, by the way?” “Archipelligo kidnapping.” 66

Madame Kreuschfah sighed. “Got nothing for you there, Mr. Walterhaus. Great… See, Sid? Instead, you lock them up, prepare to kill them, let them escape, and then they get to waltz right in to see our chocolate rabbit. For what? You could have just stopped them outside the castle and said, ‘Hey, what you here for?’ Instead, you drag them in and pretty much show off all our plans to them. Great job, Sid. The money I pay you is obviously well-spent.” “I was just trying to do my best to keep the castle safe, god damn it!” The Madame gestured around the room. “Well, fine job you’re doing! Look at how well it’s working out for all of us!” “Can we just take care of these bastards and talk about this later, ma’am?” Madame Kreuschfach sighed and lowered her face. “Fine.” They turned back to Bernardo, Sugah, and Dr. Hutchins, training their guns on them. “Sorry that it ended up like this, Mr. Walterhaus, but you have to go now. Please step out of the way, Dr. Hutch… Wait… Where did the Asian guy go?” By then, it was too late. Ching was already in the doorway, behind Kreuschfach and her minions, and before they could even turn around to look he had dispatched Sid with a single blow and pinned Morty against the wall with his forearm. After just a moment of struggle and an arm around the neck to block the blood flow, Morty was unconscious, leaving only Madame Kreuschfach and the Doctor for them to deal with. “So, Madame, I would assume, then, that your knowledge is somewhat limited in regards to the Archipelligo case?” “If by ‘limited’, you mean ‘none at all’, then yes. My familiarity with Mr. Archipelligo is only in regards to his criminal dealings and speaking with his people to the effect of making sure he would not seek… satisfaction… regarding our ransom. With his ties to the city, he can often take these things personally. So it’s best to find out ahead of time, though we definitely don’t move in the same circles. Even criminally. He isn’t into crime, per se. He does something totally different… He’s like Oberwalz’s legalized mafia.” “Hmm… Well, this complicates matters as you’re the only… How should I put this?... ’Business associate’ of Desmond Archipelligo. With the exception of an unknown figure named ‘Angosto’.”

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Madame Kreuschfach had a look of guilty knowledge plastered across her face. “I’ve heard the name ‘Ringlon Angosto’. The way I’ve heard it spoken, I knew not to ask any more about it or even speak it out loud. I would take that as a suggestion to do the same, Mr. Walterhaus.” “This complicates matters further. The only clues so far have led us only here, as you were the only figure known to be implicated in working with Mr. Archipelligo. As you seem to have no dealings with him, other than at a peripheral level, that means our meeting with Edward Quackenbush and the subsequent information garnered was nothing more than a red herring and no one possesses any information in the Archipelligo kidnapping, of course meaning that we have no leads. So, that just left us with a wild goose chase, by which we accidentally came upon your little scheme.” “Perhaps we could leave things be, Mr. Walterhaus. You could go on your way; we could continue with our little plot? It’d be perfectly fine with me. There’d be no hard feelings, no repercussions on our part…” “I’m sure that’s not possible, Madame. We can’t allow miscreants to go around, blowing up City Hall willy-nilly.” “But, Mr. Walterhaus, I’m old and infirm. I have nothing for you… It’d just be easier for everyone if you let me go and left right now.” Bernardo wasn’t listening. He was hovering over the device laying across the floor and the Doctor standing next to it. He could see the shape now, the rabbit outline in the huge concave tray, its mirror image in the tray next to it, exterior chocolate outlines filled with the grey putty-like explosive. “How did you end up with this, Doctor? You seem to me neither a baker, a candy-maker, nor an explosives expert…” “Well, those things are hard to come by in Oberwalz. I’m a professor by trade. Various sciences. I used to work at Oberwalz University, but they never appreciated my genius. They don’t want new ideas over there… Can you believe they had the audacity to tell me that my combining of man and ham sandwich was unethical? I mean, it was stupid and didn’t work, but I don’t now how you can call that unethical! And my warthog-man assistant worked out very nicely… He had all the best features of a man and a warthog. Though he ended up with a substantial amount of joint problems. You get that with dogs too, you know? But I guess it ended up alright, because now he’s in a singing trio that Lou Griffin

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put together called ManHandle. I mean, they should be thanking me. In fact, you’d think I’d get a percentage…” Bernardo, usually completely willing to listen to any amount of strange and unrelated information, was becoming annoyed. It could have been the waning hour or the fact that he was in a dank, moist dungeon with an explosive chocolate rabbit, a mad scientist, and a fake German, but he was ready to move on. Bernardo talked loudly over Hutchins’ sentence. “And the rabbit, Doctor?” “Oh, yes… Well, pretty simple. I was almost finished. If you don’t mind…” He motioned to his bucket of cooling chocolate and the mold and Bernardo nodded. “You see here that the detonator is placed in the midst of the C-4 and the edges of the outer chocolate shell are painted with a coat of hot liquid chocolate, then you pull the lever here…” Dr. Hutchins pulled the lever next to him on a small control panel, raising the two heavy sheets from opposite ends with a winch, the middle being hinged, toward each other, closing the rabbit’s halves into a solid whole. There was a spurting noise as hoses attached to the far side of the sheets twitched, causing the whole mold to swing from the chains holding it in the air. “You see now that a cooling agent is fed through the sheets, hardening the chocolate and hopefully sealing it for shipment. Simple enough. Now it’s finished.” “And these knobs?” Bernardo twiddled a few dials, numbers rapidly changing as he turned them. “Oh, dear… Please no! That’s the radio timer for the detonator! It sets the detonator! You shouldn’t toy with that!” Hutchins attempted to climb over Bernardo to get to the console. Bernardo shook his head as he looked at all the controls and buttons. “Sorry… Is this the button to clear it?” Bernardo pressed a large red button as the words came out of his mouth and the number displayed began to decrease. “Dear God, no! That’s the button to set the timer!” “Well, you should have labeled it, shouldn’t you? Workplace accidents can be avoided with appropriate foresight.” Suddenly, everyone panicked. On the part of Bernardo, Ching, and Sugah, it was good-natured sort of panic where they were only interested in exiting the castle as quickly as possible, especially now that they knew that there was no reason for them to have come there in the first place. But, 69

for Dr. Hutchins and Madame Kreuschfach, it was the kind of panic that comes to someone when their very lives and livelihoods are endangered. This would have also applied to Sid and Morty, but they were too busy being unconscious to know the difference. The aforementioned panic was best exhibited in Madame Kreuschfach screaming and Dr. Hutchins running around the room, aimlessly, attempting to gather himself, his things, and escape all at the same time. “My experiments! My things! Jesus Christ, I don’t even know the way out of the castle! What’s going on?” His fear only increased as the timer counted down slowly, having started at four minutes, and fifty-seven seconds and dropping steadily. Madame Kreuschfach was quicker to rush for the exit but was hindered by her vinyl gown, which had virtually no give. “Help me! I can’t run!” Her cries were ignored as she shuffled forward clumsily and tried to exit the room at an excruciatingly slow pace. Bernardo, Ching, and Sugah didn’t hesitate for a moment and were already back in the chocolate-pouring room before Madame Kreuschfach’s first scream ended. Stepping over the prone chocolate mannequins that used to be Castle Kreuschfach guards, they ran up the metal stairs, their feet ringing on the grates, and made their way up the half dozen levels to what they approximated to be the surface. Retracing their steps as quickly as possible and never looking back, they raced through the blank halls and passages, all looking roughly the same, running past servants as an alarm sounded. Unlike earlier alarms heard in the distance, this was like an air-raid siren and, upon hearing it, everyone in the building that they passed was rushing toward the exit, never looking back and not caring at all that the three of them were escaping. Just over four minutes after Bernardo pressed the button, the three men burst from the front gates and didn’t stop their sprint until they reached the cab, which had been moved off the gravel drive, right next to where they left it, and parked. Sugah checked inside and found his keys still in the ignition. Glad to have his transportation and money-making device back, he hopped inside, ready to go.

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Bernardo and Ching leapt into the back seat and the cab was already in reverse before they even had a chance to close the door. “Think everyone’s going to make it out?” Sugah looked somewhat concerned as he whipped the vehicle around and slammed it forward, leaping potholes and bouncing along the gravel road. “I’m not sure. I doubt everyone could get out, but these are the type of liabilities you run into when you deal with explosive rabbits in a work environment. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen it happen. It’s just terrible.” Bernardo had barely finished speaking when the castle consumed itself in a ball of flame, the North side exploding outward in a shower of large German stones that rained down even as far away as the speeding cab, chunks bouncing off the roof and landing around them as they drove on. The South end stayed upright, but the ruined and blazing North side of the castle collapsed inward and left the block of dark stone blackness a backlit finger of rock, surrounded by a corona of orange flame and hazy light. “Though that looked particularly bad, I suppose these are the wages of working for a local criminal enterprise and candy manufacturer. It was only a matter of time ‘til such a tragedy occured. No point in crying over spilled explosive chocolate felonious milk.” “It was a nice castle, though.” Sugah rocketed back to the highway. It was time to rethink this case.

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Chapter 7 The Breakfast of Would-Be Champions “We were working from the assumption that the kidnapping was related to monetary gain or reprisal from a criminal or business associate of Desmond Archipelligo. We know that the girl is gone, but all our data in this regard has come to naught, leaving us with the idea that her disappearance is not linked to organized kidnapping or criminal enterprise.” Bernardo stared out the window as they cruised back into the city, the sun rising in the distance like a wedge of lemon on the horizon. “Now, if this disappearance is the work of random violence, we lack the resources and access to provide us with the evidence required to solve that sort of case… Anyone could have abducted the girl, killed her, and hidden the body anywhere. Evidence would be impossible to recover for us three and the leads improbable to track down. So we must assume, to investigate this and use those skills that we possess and that the police, other detectives, federal agents, and reward-seekers do not, that she is alive and that this is no random disappearance.” “And don’t they usually say something about assumptions, man? Involving asses and you?” “We are looking for evidence, wherever it may be. If there is no evidence, we have at least eliminated all potential options… But I have a hunch that she’s still nearby and isn’t dead. I think we should continue to work from the assumption that, if we seek to do good, we will track down some sort of lead or clue from those related to her, somehow. If the relation is not with her father, then it must somehow be personally related to her. It doesn’t seem to me that a family enemy is the culprit, so it must be someone that knows the girl personally… We should look into her acquaintances and hope that we’re not too late to follow the trail.” “Well, my man, where to, then?” “I think we should, first and foremost, concentrate on the information that we can find regarding the victim. If this isn’t a movement against the father, then perhaps we can find guidance on our path by investigating those surrounding Louissa. Perhaps one of her acquaintances knows something that they haven’t told the police… First, we must check with 72

her schoolmates. I believe she went to a small private academy that catered to the children of the rich and powerful, those unwilling or unable to make it at Oberwalz University and instead bought their way into education, like a walrus climbing into a hot tub. There we might find out more about who she actually is and what she did before she disappeared.” “When you want to do that, B?” “Well, it’s very early and it’s been a long day out. Perhaps we should get some food, some rest, and then we’ll investigate the house of learning in the afternoon, after these students are back from classes and ready themselves for that night’s inebriation, ritualistic mating rituals, intentional and unintentional druggings, and forced or semiconscious sexual intercourse.” “You sure they don’t go to Oberwalz U?” “My dear Reginald, all colleges are the same.”

It was morning when they pulled in to the Regional Home Of Breakfast Eatery, Pancake Factory & Sausage Barn. It had been too long since they had eaten. They were met at the door by the hostess, a bluehaired old woman who looked like she’d worked there since the Civil War. Her ancient brown and white striped uniform had taken on the shape of her body in a way that denoted an extreme amount of time spent in those clothes. “Hey, babies. How y’all doin’?” Bernardo of all people seemed a bit thrown by her genteel attitude. “Um… Quite all right, ma’am. Thank you for asking. We require sustenance in short order.” “Well, most of our cookin’ is short order, honey, so I don’t think you’ve got to worry… You babies follow me and I’ll get you sat down.” The three men looked at each other briefly in wonder at this strange and antiquated creature before following her to a booth in the back room, near the kitchen. Amidst the din of clinking plates, orders being called, and food sizzling, they sat and tried to talk through the events of morning. “I was thinking that, perhaps, we should try to infiltrate the school and blend in, if you will. Currently, I think we stand out a bit.” Bernardo was right, as people at various

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tables were staring uncomfortably at this loud man in goggles, tremendous hat, scarf, and baggy pants, though that was surely not what Bernardo had meant. “We must appear to those around us as comrades and compatriots. We must be as the chameleon in the lion’s den. We must infiltrate and find as much information as possible about the girl and her habits, her friends, her plans…” It was as this moment that their waitress, a gumsnapping young woman with a nametag that said “Jewyl”, arrived at the table, wearing the same weathered brown and white as the hostess. She looked blandly at them, demeanor reminding them all of a wet sock wrapped around a brick, and gave them her best hundred-yard stare, betraying no sense of personality or ego beneath. “Morning, boys, how are you guys doing? I’m Jewyl, I’m going to be your waitress, and what can I get for you to drink?” It was as if everything she said was one long word, uninterrupted by pauses or breathing. Bernardo answered first. “My man here will have a hot tea… I’ll have the iced tea.” “I’ll take a Cherry Spritz, baby.” Sugah smiled at the girl, who perceived nothing. “Okay, I’ll get those for you while you’re looking over the menus. Do you have any questions or are you ready to order?” “Oh…” Bernardo was a bit unprepared for her run-on diction and accompanying train of thought. “I know what I want… I’ll take the Super Ham-Tastic Platter. With two eggs on the side.” “Ham-Tastic, two eggs. You, sir?” Ching skimmed the menu. “Numbah two Chucky Chickah Plate, mash potaydo, sie sarad.” “Okay… Chunky Chicken, mashed, and salad. What dressing?” “Rarnch.” “Ranch on the salad. And you, sir?” “Yeah, baby, I’ll take the Mega Morning Combo Platter, extra bacon and sausage, Happy Cakes with the blueberry syrup, and a Cherries Jubilation.” “Mega, extra meats, pancakes with blueberry, and a Jubilation. Got it. Want chocolate chips in or on those cakes?” “Hell, no, baby… I think I’ve had more than enough chocolate for one lifetime, after last night.”

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“That sounds really kinky, buddy… Anything else for anyone before I go put this order in?” Bernardo raised his hand. “Add a Regional Home Hash to mine.” “Hash to yours. Okay, I’ll put that order in and be right back with your drinks, real soon, okay? Okay. Tell me if you need anything, my name’s Jewyl, okay?” And she headed off to the kitchen, where they could hear her loud staccato order-calling technique in action. After her string of near-unintelligible guttural mutterings was done, they turned back to talk to each other but were interrupted by Jewyl bursting from the kitchen with a tray of drinks. “Okay,” she sidled up to the table. “We’ve got the Cherry Spritz, hot tea, and iced tea. Brought two slices of lemon and sugar and sweeteners are on the table. Here’s your silverware, is there anything else I can get for you right now? No, okay.” Before the three could breathe, she was back into the kitchen. Bernardo watched her leave intently. “Hmm… The woman runs around like a meth addict. Do you think there’s something wrong with her?” There were no answers to his question, a relative quiet overtaking the dining room for a few moments, during which Sugah tried his Cherry Spritz. “How’s the Spritz, Sugah?” “It’s okay… It doesn’t taste quite right. It’s a little off.” “Let me taste it…” Bernardo sipped at the drink and swished it around his mouth like a wine-taster. He winced and frowned at the flavor. “Yes. That’s not quite right. You should definitely ask them to fix that.” Within the next minute, Jewyl jetted back out of the kitchen to their table. “Yeah, they’re out of the blueberry syrup right now, would you prefer the maple or berry?” “Maple… Um, my Spritz seems a little… wrong. The syrup doesn’t seem right, baby.” “Okay, well, they changed out the syrup box this morning, so there should be plenty of syrup, right? So I don’t think that’s the problem. Okay, is that all?” Bernardo interrupted before she could make her escape again. “Ma’am, has the fountain been calibrated recently?” She stared blankly at Bernardo, her usual stream of sound not coming out of her apathetic face. “Sir, I don’t

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know what you’re talking about. I know that we changed the box. It seems okay by the look of it.” “Young lady, I’ll have you know that these fountain machines need regular calibration using a special measuring cup device to measure the current ratio of syrup to water and a screwdriver to adjust the output… Luckily for you, I happen to have a screwdriver in my jacket pocket and I can adjust your fountain based on taste alone! Lead me to the fountain this moment, my good woman!” Jewyl didn’t even bother to respond as she jetted back to the kitchen with her usual level of hurry, followed closely by Bernardo. On the other side of the dining room, the two men hiding behind newspapers paid very close attention to his exit. Ching and Sugah stared at each other across the booth. “So, Ching, how’s that cookin’ class going?”

In the kitchen, Bernardo was pierced by the gaze of Jewyl, the three cooks, and Lupo the dishwasher as he tinkered with the fountains. The cover for each nozzle was pulled off and the drink flavor tested by taste before the strange screw-like metal pegs underneath were turned, the taste test and peg-turning being repeated until the desired level of syrup to water was achieved. Bernardo was in the midst of making the appropriate adjustments on all the flavors, telling Jewyl about the importance of proper fountain maintenance along the way. “You know, fountain syrup calibration can be seen as a metaphor for responsibility in a modern world… Most people assume that, if the final product is achieved without major issue, the quality of that product is somehow unimportant in comparison with the result. If the result is what is generally expected, the quality of that result is negligible. But standards exist to separate the dabbling of the incompetents from the well-thought-out work of the professionals. In these modern times, the line has been blurred and there is an ‘acceptable’ level of error or general lack of quality in every facet of creation or preparation. For example, if you were to cook the food badly, if the customer doesn’t complain about the quality, then the meal is still considered a success. This is the great failing of the new generation: an

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apathetic sense of pride in a job well-done.” Bernardo took yet another sample taste, smacking his lips and smiling at the results. “But a job well-done is the only one worth doing, for if one has no pride in their work, their work is nothing more than the indentured servitude, nay slavery, of their souls.” Another sip. “That’s much better. No one wants a sour Buster Cola.” It was at this moment that two figures burst through the swinging kitchen door, one wearing a long coat, jeans, and a denim shirt, with a cap pulled down as far as it would go and the other wore a fluffy winter jacket, gloves, cowboy hat, and glasses. Both of them sported obviously false moustaches, large and bushy enough to conceal their mouths and, hopefully, their identities. On a more concerning note, they both also sported revolvers, which they waved as they came through the door with the exuberance of first-time criminals or TV show policemen. “On your feet, Walterhaus!” Bernardo seemed mildly annoyed by the intrusion, but the kitchen staff showed virtually no reaction, barely taking their bored eyes off their cooking and Bernardo’s fountaintuning antics. Bernardo waved his screwdriver disapprovingly at the intruders, as if wielding a sword. “This is no way to treat a man who’s attempting to better your beverage experience!” “Get the fuck up! You’re coming with us!” “Sir, I don’t think you understand… I have a Ham Platter and hash coming to me and I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours. This is a dire situation and you should be far more concerned about my well-being.” They angrily ripped their moustaches off, revealing their identities to Bernardo. “Francois! Rudy! You came all the way to this side of town for breakfast?” “We’ve been following you, asshole! We’re taking you back to the Institute. Dr. Lombardo wants to see you…” “Well, say hello to Ernst for me, but I must definitely decline. I have important work to be done and have no time to make social calls.” Bernardo held up his screwdriver as if to exhibit his level of extreme business. Rudy, in the puffy coat, pointed his pistol in Bernardo’s face. “This isn’t a request, douchebag! Get on your feet! We’re leaving right now!”

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It took a few seconds for anyone to notice when Bernardo burst through the doorway, followed closely by Rudy and Francois, a gun to his temple. No one had really bothered to look at them, all the bustle of the kitchen and wait staff having numbed them to noise and activity, but then, finally, someone looked up and there were mutters of panic at the sight of guns, drawing more attention to the hastily-leaving pack of men. Francois and Rudy had started to shove Bernardo towards the door when Sugah, facing the kitchen, finally noticed and stood up, shouting and pointing at the abductors. Ching was on his feet and halfway across the room when Francois’ gun trained on him. “Get back! If you get too close, Walterhaus dies and we get to see if you can dodge bullets!” Ching froze in place and there were tense moments as they inched Bernardo backwards toward the door. Ching stood his ground and stared down the kidnappers. “Ching! Sugah! They’re attempting to abduct me back to the Lombardo Institute… Back to a life of pudding and forced sedation!” “You’re an escaped fucking lunatic! Shut up!” Ching and Sugah bristled as Rudy’s gun handle cracked into the side of Bernardo’s skull, dazing him and making him somewhat more pliable to be dragged from the restaurant. Ching, Sugah, and several other onlookers followed at a safe distance. Even Jewyl impassively watched as he was dragged away. The two orderlies dragged Bernardo out to their car, a gang of onlookers gathering on the sidewalk outside the Regional Home Of Breakfast door to watch. They covered the crowd with their guns while trying to place the struggling Bernardo into the back of their long black sedan, as he had become lucid again and was particularly irritated after the gun butt to the head, having no desire to participate in this charade any longer. He thrashed wildly around as Rudy tried to stuff him into the back seat of the car, though lacking handcuffs or restraints, his ability to control Bernardo was severely lacking. “Get him into the trunk!” Francois angrily tried to coach Rudy on his technique while keeping his gun aimed at the edgy crowd, Ching and Sugah at the forefront, ready to act at the first opportunity. Rudy pushed Bernardo toward the rear of the car, placing the gun into his belt and producing a set of keys 78

from his pocket. Fumbling with the key as Bernardo fought back, his attempts to open the trunk became more and more cartoonish in their futility, until, finally and improbably, the trunk flew open and Rudy attempted to force Bernardo backwards into it, legs flailing. “You’ll never take me back alive, you bastards! Cads! Juvenile delinquents! Tax evaders!” “Keep yelling and you’ll get your wish!” Rudy pulled his gun back out of his belt and pointed it at the kicking Bernardo, laying back into the lip of the trunk. It was around this moment that another car, a beat-up 1970’s generic American sedan in a stunningly dull beige color, covered in dents and bullet holes, pulled up three spaces away from the parked car of the orderlies. Three men disembarked from the vehicle, talking amongst themselves excitedly about something incredibly mundane. As they slammed the doors and headed toward the restaurant entrance and, subsequently, right past the car trunk that Bernardo was being forced into, Rudy and Francois turned their attention to these men. “Get back!” Rudy yelled at the first of the three men, a grizzled fellow with an oily pompadour in a battered and rough-looking grey suit, dirty and worn without a tie. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The man didn’t seem to be speaking to Rudy as much as he was talking at Rudy’s snub-nosed revolver, which was aimed at his face. “None of your fucking business, old man! Get the fuck back in your car and stay out of our way!” Rudy expected a reaction involving screaming, running, or a fearful backing away from his threatening posture and pointed gun, which he had never fired before and really hoped not to. Instead, this man turned angrily to the first of his two cohorts, a middle-aged man, flesh beginning to sag with weight and age around the face and midsection, dressed in a pair of brown polyester pants, a thinlystretched striped polo shirt, and a green blazer. You could carry a drink on the geometrically perfected flattop growing from his head and, by all appearances, he looked like the recollection most people have of their aging middle school gym coach. “Did he just fucking call me ‘old man’? I’m thirty-fucking-five years old? How am I a fucking old man?” The flat-topped man responded with a languid monotone. “No tellin’, man. I wouldn’t take that sass off of any kid, no matter how old I am.” 79

“He isn’t even a fucking kid! He’s probably 5 years younger than me! What kind of shit is that?” “I’m tellin’ you. I don’t take backtalk or verbal abuse, especially from youngsters. And you bastards are all younger than me. I didn’t fight in Tijuana for this shit.” “You’re damned right I’m not taking fucking backtalk! Especially off these Canadian-lookin’ bastards!” Rudy had been observing this conversation with something of a detached awe and wonder at the audacity of the two men, still pointing his gun at them, but letting the anger and tension wash from his face in surprise. Bernardo had even stopped struggling and was listening intently, seemingly undisturbed to be doing so from halfway into the trunk of a long sedan. But Rudy’s sense of wonder was severely diminished by the first, apparently younger man drawing an unbelievably large revolver out of his suit jacket and pointing it back in Rudy’s own face. “You fucking douchebag piece of shit! Why don’t you put your fucking girl-gun down and leave before I blow your head apart and use what’s left to store my loose change or cigarette butts in? What do you think, teabag?” Francois moved his aim from the crowd to the men as well, but, despite this, Ching and Sugah didn’t attempt to make a move and, strangely enough, seemed to relax. Things were becoming very uncomfortable for the erstwhile kidnappers very quickly. Something had gone terribly wrong and they hadn’t quite figured out what had happened yet. Rudy was shaken beyond belief but was trying not to show it. “I’d leave if I were you, man, before you get in some fucking trouble!” “You want fucking trouble?” With his free hand, the one not pointing the ten pound revolver at Rudy’s face, the man pulled a folding wallet out of his coat pocket and flashed its contents, a large gold badge and police ID. “You just got a whole assload of trouble, Gretsky! I’m about to beat on you until I get a government grant for it!” Rudy’s eyes must have widened noticeably at the sight, as a grin broke out across the police detective’s face, then his partner’s, who also held up his own badge, and, finally, a pathetic dopey smile on the face of the man who had been relatively unnoticed in the back, young, non-threatening, and rather silly-looking. Before another thought could pass through Rudy’s head, these two other men had drawn guns of their own, less weighty and easily more manageable

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semi-automatic pistols, and were pointing them at both Rudy and Francois. “Now how about you fucking drop those guns, you twats?” Francois and Rudy complied rather quickly to the request, the metal of the guns clinking loudly on the pavement. It was around this time that the cop with the exceptionally large gun finally noticed Bernardo, lying halfway in and halfway out of the trunk. “Hello, Mopper.” Bernardo smiled and waved, almost relaxed. “Hey, Bernardo. What are you doing in the trunk of a car? Or hanging out with these fuckwits?” He motioned with his gun to the two men, hands nervously raised over their heads. “Well, they were trying to kidnap me.” Mopper put the gun directly against Rudy’s forehead. “Is that right, fuck-o?” Rudy panicked and stuttered as he tried to respond. “He… he… he’s an… es… escaped… ment… mental… patient.” Rudy peed a little. “Bernardo Walterhaus is a private investigator and one of the greatest men I’ve ever known, you fuck! You’re just some piece of shit kidnapper! You don’t count for fuck to me! I could kill you, rape your wife, and eat your baby and the Chief wouldn’t even put me on suspension! Hey, Gusto… These guys apparently don’t know what we do to kidnappers in Oberwalz.” The older gym coach type answered. “Apparently not, Mop. I guess we have to teach them.” “Apparently we do.” In frightened defeat, Rudy, followed quickly by Francois, sidled up against their car, spread their legs, and awaited arrest. They were somewhat surprised, then, when Rudy was kicked to the ground by Mopper and Gusto held Francois firmly in place, face against the car roof. Rudy fell and received several more kicks to the stomach, eliciting sharp squeals. Francois gave moans of sympathy and fear before receiving a blow to the back of the head with a pistol handle that sent him sliding down the side of the car to his knees. A kick sent Francois onto his stomach as well and he scrambled to pull his knees to his chest as the kicks flew at his body. Rudy was in the fetal position nearby, having suffered the same fate. Mopper and Gusto stomped at them, 81

aiming a peculiar amount of blows at the groin area before finally leaving them tearful, bleeding, broken, and barely breathing in pools of urine and blood on the blacktop of the parking lot. Straightening his coat and putting away his gun, Mopper finally turned his attention to the shocked crowd. “What the fuck are you looking at?” His young compatriot, for his part, was just as shocked and awed by the situation, but it faded into some sort of abused admiration, whereas the bystanders were left disgusted by the brutality of the police detectives. Bernardo had climbed out of the trunk and had viewed the vicious beating with detached disinterest. After it was over, he joined the three men, Ching and Sugah taking this opportunity to walk over to the group as well. It became quickly apparent to the onlookers that they all knew each other from the stream of happy greetings that everyone except the blonde, young police officer gave each other and, realizing that the whole drama was over, dissipated back into the restaurant. “Holy shit! Ching! I haven’t seen you in forever, fucker!” “Mistah Moppah Rod. Vely nice tow see yu.” “And Sugah, man! We haven’t seen you since we took the cab back from the circus drug bust!” “I know, man. I still haven’t all the clown makeup out of my upholstery.” “Sorry about that again. You know how those things go. I’ve still got scars on my ass and Dickens died with a giant dachshund footprint crushed into his chest. Believe me, the widow wasn’t happy about much of anything… And I should know. I tried to cheer her up, but she was having none of it… I think the death made her frigid.” Gusto nodded. “That happens to women. Their husband gets his chest caved in and their panties are locked down for life.” They all milled around while Rudy and Francois continued to lie on the wet pavement, weeping softly, and bleeding. Mopper eyed the restaurant hungrily. “So, you guys want to go inside and get something to eat? ‘Cause we’re fucking starved.”

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Chapter 8 Meeting Of The Minds “So, who is this young new fellow you have with you here, Mopper?” Bernardo, Ching, and Sugah had moved to a larger booth and were all sitting on the same side, facing Detectives Mopper Rod, Larry Gusto, and their young friend who Bernardo was referring to. “Oh… This guy is Clevel Sanchez. He’s riding with us, learning the ropes for a while. When all the other guys died at the Annual Detectives’ Dinner from that bad clam dip, they had him transfer in from Northrut. I don’t know what they’re doing with him once he’s trained.” “How are you enjoying your time working with the Oberwalz Police Department, Detective Sanchez? Is it quite the change from the inner workings of the Northrut police department?” Sanchez grinned like an idiot in his boyish way. He was young, barely out of his twenties, blonde, always smiling in a way that reminded Bernardo of many people he’d met at the Lombardo Institute, and he dressed like someone who’d put on his father’s suit to try to impress everyone and fool them into thinking he was somehow older and more mature than he actually was. “Well, I’d only been a police officer for a year when they promoted me and transferred me here… I mean, it was really sudden. I wasn’t due for a promotion for a long time, but when they heard about the detective shortage in Oberwalz, they were really quick to give me a promotion and send me right down… But a lot more goes on here in Oberwalz than it ever did back in Northrut. I mean, I broke a really big theft ring that was stealing ice cream trucks… But, oh yeah, it’s totally great here. I think there’s a lot more for me to learn and grow from. It’s totally different and cool. And I really love being able to help all the good people on the streets and prevent the kind of crime that makes their lives unhappy. Crime is bad and I became a police officer to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone.” “Don’t they usually keep detectives in groups of two? Why do they have three of you riding around together?” Mopper leaned in, as if to divulge something confidential. “Well, we’re still the only three detectives on the force and, though they’re trying to get some of the boys in blue up to detective snuff real fuckin’ quick, it’s taking a 83

little time. In the meanwhile, we’re breaking in Sanchez before he goes off on his own… whenever that is.” Gusto grunted agreement. “Yeah. And Chief Pulatso thinks we’re a couple of fuck-ups.” Mopper shook his head. “Did you have to say that out loud? I mean, the Chief doesn’t think we’re fuck-up’s. He just wants to keep things controlled and under his anal retentive guidance. I mean, the man wants to know what we’re doing constantly. It’s very annoying. You do a few things that go against the book and kill a few people accidentally and all of sudden they treat you like a criminal. It’s disgusting.” “And we did set his car on fire yesterday.” Mopper stared at Gusto with dead eyes. “Do you have to tell them everything?” “Who they gonna tell?” “Good point… So, anyway, Sanchez is learning all the tools of the trade from us before being unleashed on his own and left to train his own rookie to be his partner. After a few weeks on the force, he’ll already have seniority.” Gusto punctuated Mopper’s sentences with his own monotone exclamations. “Not a bad gig.” Sanchez grinned. “I like it here, too. Though most of the other cops have been kind of unfriendly and don’t really seem to like us. I guess they’re still mad that all the other detectives died. I mean, they’re grieving and they need someone to blame. I can totally feel for them. I had a cat once…” “Yeah, that’s great, kid, but we need to get our order in here. So shut the fuck up.” Mopper flagged down Jewyl, who was attempting to wait on other tables and ignore them entirely. She was doing a rather dutiful job of it until Mopper finally managed to draw her attention using the words “wait whore” to call for her. All other methods of drawing her over previously had failed and you really had to commend him for his commitment to getting her attention at all, but his methods were bound to draw ire and saliva on to their meals, something that none of them really wanted. But that was Mopper’s style: always saying the wrong thing to get him in trouble with women. At least it was too early for him to be drunk. Jewyl strutted over to the table with as much disdain as she could muster. “Hi there again. Okay, what can I get for you guys? I’ll get you guys some refills and your food should

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be out in a second, okay? What can I get for you… other guys?” Mopper looked her over with a sneer and a quick run of his hands over his hair to smooth his pompadour. “Yeah, hot-ass, I’ll take the Mega Pepper Sirloin Platter with the chili cheese fries and a… How is your Spritz here?” “I just tuned the fountain to perfection. The beverages are a delight for the senses and you should definitely try one.” “Oh, well, if Bernardo says it’s good, then I’ll take a Spritz.” Gusto’s order was as straightforward as usual. “Pork chop plate. Potatoes, mashed. Corn. I’ll take a Floom to drink.” “Um, oh gosh… I don’t know what to get.” Sanchez flipped through the pages in the menu while Jewyl stared right through him, only slightly more detached than she normally appeared. Mopper began to slap himself in the forehead in frustration with one hand. “Ooh… It all looks so good. I mean, I don’t even know. What would you recommend?” “I recommend you make up your fucking mind.” “No, Mopper… I was asking Miss… Miss Jewyl? That’s a pretty name.” “Thank you. Okay, honey. I don’t really know what to recommend. I generally just get the salad or the cheese steak.” “Oh… those both sound good. I don’t know. It all looks good. Especially in the pictures.” Several more excruciating moments of waiting and finger-drumming went by. “You know what? I’ll have the chicken finger basket with the honey mustard and a water.” “Right. I’ll be back with your drinks.” Jewyl turned to beat a hasty retreat. “Oh, yeah… Sweet-tits?” She turned back to look at Mopper, staring apathetic daggers at him. ”If anyone spits in my food, I’ll be coming back there to pistol-whip everyone in the kitchen, okay?” Jewyl gave Mopper her most unhappy look, which could still barely be considered an expression, and headed back to the kitchen to relay their orders to the cooks, as well as a series of not-too-thinly-veiled threats that they would adhere to only because they witnessed the violence in the parking lot or heard frightening tales about it.

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Mopper restarted the conversation with his first real attempt to actually catch up. “So… Bernardo. What are you doing out of the clink and what did those guys want with you?” “Mr. Walterhaus, you were in jail?” Sanchez gave his most doe-eyed look and frowned with something resembling sadness or disappointment, at least as much of either emotion as you’d be able to recognize in a puppy’s expression. “No, young man, I was locked away on the orders of the Mayor for nearly two months in the Lombardo Institute, nothing more than the worst type of old-fashioned, mindbutchering asylum, dressed up as a modern health clinic. Dr. Lombardo has a bad habit of taking in undesirables and drugging them into a stupor or madness. Despicable acts that one wouldn’t expect from a mortgage broker or a Venezuelan reef shark, even on a bad day.” “How horrible!” “Well, that is indicative of the Mayor’s general attitude. He prefers to make his problems go away via the easiest means possible… Out of sight, out of mind. He incarcerated me in this place where I could be denied trial without question and, as such, was in my own way jailed. So I jumped out of a window and escaped so that, like the majestic swan, I could taste the air of my rightful freedom yet again and solve the Archipelligo case.” Gusto grunted. “Mmm… Tough case.” “What exactly do you gentlemen know about the case? Did you work on it at all?” Mopper was shocked that Bernardo even bothered to ask. “Us? Are you kidding? The Chief, the Commissioner, and the Mayor didn’t want us anywhere near it. In fact, we were told it was totally off-limits.” “The Mayor said we’d destroy the case and Mr. Archipelligo would pay to have the city bulldozed and all of us professionally killed.” Sanchez’s exuberance was really starting to wear thin with Mopper, who couldn’t take much more of his happiness or his unerring honesty. Mostly the honesty, though. He rolled his eyes and tried to draw the attention back from everything that Sanchez had said, though it definitely seemed like none of them cared or were even really surprised by the news. “So, yeah… What we heard about the whole deal is that she left the house, was driven away by that Pepé Blackwell character, was never seen again, the 86

limo was never found, and there was no sign or word from either of them. No one’s claimed responsibility. No one knows shit. Archipelligo knows something, but he’s not talking…” “Well, it’s definitely not involved with any of his criminal connections, as we’ve already investigated that area and there’s no reason to believe that any of them would have been able to do it without word spreading throughout the criminal underworld.” Mopper laughed. “Not that anyone would be fucking crazy enough to cross him. The man is an evil bastard. He would ruin or destroy anyone that so much as looked at him funny. In fact, I think he did that to a guy with a lazy eye once.” “Yes… This we imagined. And we further gathered this from our interactions with one Madame Kreuschfach.” “Oh… You went and saw that crazy bitch, huh?” “Well, our goal was to gather information on the case. It’s where clues we received from Ed Quackenbush led, though I suppose I never should have expected much from poor Edward. He never was the most thorough investigator. Worse than those television detectives. But I was days behind the curve, so we followed his lead. Instead, we found a plot that Archipelligo had agreed not to involve his political weight in, being an attempt to ransom or explode City Hall.” “I’m all for that plan.” “Well, most unfortunately, we seem to have foiled that unrelated plot and inadvertently blew up the castle.” “Oh, that was you guys? We heard about that on the radio, but were totally not interested in checking it out.” Gusto grunted. “Long drive.” “We are unaware of what transpired afterwards, as we left quickly, under bad circumstances, and came directly here to sup ourselves and avoid capture yet again by some party, as I escaped my medicinal incarceration only to have the Mayor attempt to jail me, Edward attempt to kill me, Madame Kreuschfach’s minions capture, hold, and nearly boil us in liquid confection, and an attempt by those wretched orderlies, who you stopped, to capture and return me to the asylum from whence I had escaped. But I had been somewhat concerned about the damage we had wrought. How fares those at the castle?” “You didn’t miss much. Sounded like the place blew up and burned the fuck down. Lots of people died in the explosion and collapsing building. Madame Kreuschfach 87

escaped, somehow. She cried like a fucking infant over that damned place… I mean, it’s a fucking ancient castle. Get over it. Buy a real house.” “After that terrible debacle, we were left without any real leads in the case. As such, we’ve moved our focus to tracking Miss Archipelligo through her relationships with others.” “Really? And how’s that working out for you?” “We were planning on looking into that after we slept… The idea being to masquerade as college students and infiltrate a college party to chat with her young collegiate friends. Immerse ourselves in all things appropriate to a nineteen year old girl, living off a trust fund and going to a private school.” “We’re in.” Mopper was excited to the degree that he was beginning to make expressions that would normally be expected from Sanchez. “You’d like to come along?” Gusto even seemed to perk up. “Kegger… Good stuff.” “How about this shit? You guys get some rest. We’ll do our police work or whatever. We’ll all meet up this evening and hit up this private school of hers and see what we can shake out of those little bitches… But how can we even be sure there’s a kegger tonight?” “It’s a college and these are spoiled rich children, Mopper… Don’t they imbibe in these rituals every night?” “Good point… Well, let’s eat, get out of here, let you get some sleep, and then hit that party tonight.” “We could definitely use the rest.”

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Chapter 9 Abode, Sweet Abode They managed to pay their check in reasonable time, given the fact that Jewyl really wanted nothing to do with any of them, and left the Regional Home Of Breakfast almost completely unscathed. There were no more orderlies or toughs waiting for them upon their exit and all seemed to be going well as they drove away in Sugah’s cab. Francois and Rudy were nowhere to be found and had disappeared entirely, leaving only blood and urine behind. Bernardo though they must surely be lying low somewhere, licking their wounds or seeking immediate emergency surgery for their shattered testicles or cracked eye sockets. After dropping Bernardo and Ching off at their home, Sugah immediately headed back to his apartment to get some rest and clean himself up, but had agreed to be ready to help the detective at a moment’s notice if the need should arise. Some things in life are more important than work, he claimed, so he’d be available again if things were to go wrong, though Bernardo hoped that it wouldn’t come to that, as he didn’t want to deprive Sugah of several days’ worth of income just to help out with the momentarilyfloundering case. Bernardo and Ching entered the old brownstone walkup in the area of Southwest Oberwalz known colloquially as Squason. It had a reputation for being a reasonably rough neighborhood, right off of West Wakefield-Spurson Bypass Avenue. The supposed roughness of the neighborhood (or any semblance of crime whatsoever) had never bothered or been noticeable to Bernardo in the five years he’d lived there, though. And, if it had poked its ugly head into Bernardo’s life, Ching would have been there to make sure it didn’t disturb him in the least. But the neighbors all seemed to like the strange and flamboyantly eccentric man, so it remained safe and his neighbors kept an eye open for him, which could in his line of work be very helpful, as there could easily be someone lying in wait for them at any time. There was usually some kind of strange characters following them around, so it wasn’t a bad bet. Though, on this particular day, no one was lying in wait for them. Instead, they were being watched from a van at the end of the street, something none of the neighbors had noticed as of yet. 89

The foyer was filled with nearly a dozen hat racks, one of which Bernardo chose to hang his hat, coat, and scarf on, seemingly at random. Off to the left was a sitting room, which seemed to be completely furnished with chairs. There were at least a dozen high-backed dining room chairs in the room, one coffee table, and two end tables, none of which appeared to be recently used or matched in any conceivable way. And not a single dining room table, making the wealth of furniture seem all the more out of place. Bernardo sleepily clomped down the hallway toward the rear of the building, tiredly dragging his boots along the hardwood floors, leaving little scuff marks as he went. Everything was still in order, kept up nicely and fairly well unchanged since he’d last been here, two months before. The kitchen was spotless, the den area looked rather relaxing with its large couches, but he moved on up the stairs before exhaustion took him entirely and he collapsed onto the leather sofa. His room was upstairs, next to his study; Ching’s room was directly across the hall where he could immediately get to Bernardo in case of emergency. Ching, of course, kept a sparse living space, almost monk-like in his lack of accoutrement or furnishings. Bernardo’s room, on the other hand, was a cave of endless junk, books, and knick-knacks, all surrounding his bed, as if the whole room was a darkened burrow, his bed at its center, where Bernardo would nest and slumber. By the time his body hit the large, fluffy mattress, he was already asleep, there in his darkened, cave-like shelter.

When Bernardo opened his groggy eyes again, the sun was going down. His room was even darker than it had been when he fell asleep and, he realized, Ching was tapping at the door, apparently the reason he had woken from his coma-like slumber. Bernardo sat up, rubbing his face and grimacing at the world. “Ching, my good fellow… What’s going on?” “Mistah Watahaus, I bring you tea.”

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Ching walked over to Bernardo’s bedside, handing him a small cup, which Bernardo gladly took. Aside from being an excellent driver, a master fighter, incredibly wellorganized and quite studious, Ching was a hell of a cook and took great care to make sure Bernardo’s diet was kept in proper check on a daily basis, made somewhat more difficult by Bernardo’s great love for food that was, quite honestly, shit. But many of the things Ching made for him Bernardo actually enjoyed. And he made one hell of a cup of tea, though Bernardo had never been a fan of tea in the past. After a short discussion, which mainly consisted of Bernardo thinking out loud, about the best way to handle that evening’s investigation, Bernardo and Ching went about digging through the many closets of the home, full to overflowing, looking for something that might work as youthful garb. If they were to pass themselves off at a keg party, they’d definitely have to dress the part. So they attempted to find something that looked at least vaguely modern and young, as opposed to their usual wardrobe, which probably couldn’t stand out any more than it already did. Armed with what they thought were their best options, they gave Mopper and Gusto a call at the station to tell them they were ready. It took some time to hear back from the police detectives, but they finally called back around eight that night. Bernardo picked up the phone on the second ring. “Bernardo Walterhaus, world’s greatest detective, at your service.” “Hey, Bernardo. It’s Mopper.” “Mopper, my good man! We’ll be ready to go whenever you arrive.” “Yeah… We’ll try to be over in a minute.” “Don’t forget to dress the part, Mopper.” “The what?” “Dress to blend in and appear to be no different than any other student…” “Oh, yeah… I… I think we’ve got that covered.” Bernardo hung up the phone and looked at Ching. “I realize that we are vastly unprepared for the next step of the investigation, Ching, but I know that it will work out, as it always does, in our favor. We shall do what we do and it will lead where it leads, which will inevitably be back to something important to the case, just as it always has. I

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just hope that we find it quickly enough to save the girl. Speaking of which…” Bernardo tuned into the eight o’clock pre-evening local news to be sure that there were no new developments in the case. All of the reports were still showing the same material, the same details, only with footage of the Mayor, Desmond Archipelligo, and Bernardo’s outburst plastered all over it. Though it had turned into something of a circus, Bernardo was glad to note that there was nothing new to report. If kidnappers had called with a ransom at this late date, he’d have nothing to offer the case. For his purposes, no news was good news, at least until he could get back on the girl’s trail. Before long, with a few loud honks, Mopper, Gusto, and Sanchez pulled up in front of Bernardo’s brownstone in their beat-up sedan. Several neighbors looked out windows and yelled for them to be quiet, eliciting a response from Mopper along the lines of “Go fuck yourself.” Bernardo and Ching, dressed in their erstwhile frat gear, locked up and made their way out to the car. As they looked over their compatriots’ wardrobe, or at least the part they could see through the car windows, they were somewhat baffled by what Mopper, Gusto, and Sanchez had chosen. “So, that’s what you’re going to wear to our college outing?” Bernardo didn’t really know what to add. Mopper was less than thrilled. “Shut the fuck up and get in. We can worry about it on the way.”

The motley group was already drawing strange looks by the time they got out of the car. The five of them had cruised along in the beat-up sedan, Mopper and Gusto in the front and Bernardo, Ching, and Sanchez stuffed onto the back bench seat, first trekking up State Highway 15, then cutting across the wealthier Northeast side of Oberwalz, heading along Lance W. Miskeltoden Memorial Parkway to the gates of Mount St. Holy Oak Private College And Finishing Academy, Oberwalz, or “Moshopcafao” as the kids called it. Well, the rich kids, that is. Everyone else referred to it as “that school where all those soulless rich bastards send all their little shithead spawn.”

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Mopper flashed a badge to get in through the school gate, though the guard posted there didn’t seem to want to let them in at all. He was definitely not interested in starting an argument either, Mopper’s attitude doing nothing to ease the poor man’s mind, but he finally decided that the crazy bastard driving the ugly shitheap car was much more frightening than whatever potential trouble he could get into later for letting them on campus. He opened the gate, let them through, and went back to reading his copy of Exposed Vulva!, unaware of the damage he had caused by letting these off-duty detectives onto the school grounds. Mopper had scored the police file on Louissa Marianna Archipelligo for Bernardo, which he had asked Mopper to look into if possible. He had no expectation that Mopper would ever find it or retrieve any information for him, but a man driven by a desire to go to a teen kegger will do almost anything. From everything the file could tell Bernardo, all of Louissa’s friends would likely be in the main female dormitory house. The school only had 400 students, though their combined tuitions were probably enough to finance every school in Oberwalz. The grounds were amazing and the buildings beautiful, though the majority of the money was likely filling the pockets of the school president and board of directors. Louissa’s time here was spent in the female dormitory house, not containing a tremendous amount of girls, as most of the students opted to live at home instead of paying the high cost to stay on campus, instead being forced to submit to the indignity of being chauffeured to school every morning in limousines, though there were a few smaller houses elsewhere on campus for usage by students. The dorm had rooms shared by two girls each, one bathroom for every two rooms, space enough for 28 girls in the house. This house currently only had 24 young women living there, due to a flagging interest in the severely expensive academy. For all intents and purposes, it was a house. A very large, expensive house, with an inordinate amount of bathrooms available, a large kitchen, common rooms, and even a large-screen TV, surrounded by a bevy of couches, which were usually filled with your typically vapid uppercrust society girls, too busy trying to get large stupid men to take them to parties, get them drunk, and have sex with

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them to actually do anything so complicated or irrelevant as learn anything. As such, the location was also ripe to host parties at every opportunity. And the unappreciated luxury of the school drove the spoiled children that went there to constantly look for new and more extreme activities to punctuate their bland and uneventful existences, pinpricks of bright amusement in the darkness of a guaranteed future in the lives their parents had laid out for them since their births. And the best rebellion that they could come up with was to get drunk and fuck like retarded rabbits. This near-daily explosion of pent-up individuality and free will was already in full swing by the time they pulled up out front and piled out of the vehicle, though the car barely deserved that title anymore. It stank of smoke, spilled liquor, gunpowder, and blood, was riddled with bullet holes and covered in the dents of a dozen impacts, and was covered in scratches, not the least of which was a large “COCKSUCKER” keyed into the beige paint of the car hood. Most of the car was roughly brownish, except for one quarter panel, which was burgundy, and the vinyl textured roof of the car, which was a dirty brown color and cracked beyond repair, as if any part of the whole was reparable. As if the car wasn’t enough to draw all the attention of the college students standing outside, drinking and talking, their mode of dress did nothing to help. Bernardo and Ching had probably made the best attempt at dressing themselves but it did very little to help, as they were far from the young Aryan bent of the school’s typical students. There were two black students at the academy, one Indian, and six Japanese students, all of them children of wealthy Japanese executives and, as such, given nearly equal treatment to the white students. Nearly. Though, of no real surprise, they never bothered to associate with the wild and ignorant whites, instead spending their time studying or living real lives. As such, people didn’t know what to make of the tall, lanky Chinese man dressed in a black t-shirt, jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket. Bernardo, though he appeared somewhat younger that he actually was and acted significantly less so, was an older man and didn’t really fit the bill of the young college male. Predictably, he wore a pair of sunglasses, even though it was night, an Oberwalz Venomous Death Adders baseball cap, a pair of baggy black jeans, a white undershirt 94

and an unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt on top, untucked. They were mildly suspicious, but would have passed by without too much notice. No, it wasn’t the two of them that everyone was staring at. Sanchez even managed to dress himself in a fairly inconspicuous manner, throwing on a pair of khaki pants, a striped polo shirt, and a sport coat. It definitely suited him and he already appeared young enough for college, so he looked the part entirely, though the part happed to be that of a dork. He came across as someone trying far too hard to seem normal, as well as someone who had no real sense of style, both of which were true of Sanchez. But the two drawing all the attention were, of course, Mopper and Gusto. Poor Larry Gusto had done his best, given the fact that he was an old manual laborer-turned-cop with a spare tire around his midsection and a nearly-white flattop. He had attempted some kind of youth with an Oberwalz Athletics Organization cap, from when he used to play on the police softball team many years before, a long sleeve navy T-shirt tucked into a grey pair of slacks, and a grey windbreaker. Somehow in his attempt to look normal, he ended up looking like an undercover cop. His narc look was drawing a little attention, but most eyes were on Mopper, who had thrown on a wife-beater and loose, limp, plaid flannel shirt, as he had some memory of that dirty slacker look being cool with the kids at some point in recent memory. The real shocker, though, was his jeans. They were somewhat threadbare and holey in places because, as Mopper had been forced to explain under intense questioning on the drive up to the school, he had attempted to make acid-washed jeans at home, using a washing machine, the pair of blue jeans, and an old car battery. Mopper swore that the kids still loved the acid-washed style and it would help him to ingratiate himself to their clique, a fact that the rest of the car had found entirely laughable. Instead, the battery acid seemed to have burned holes through the denim in various places, left other areas thin and worn, and the skin underneath the jeans, peeking out through the holes, was pink from mild acid burns. This was a typically Mopper-esque idea. The fumes on the ride had been enough that the passengers would have leapt from the moving vehicle, had the back seat not been so small and restrictive as to prevent it. And now Mopper was there, with all the kids out in front of the house staring as his wretched pants, which you would 95

have sworn were still slightly smoldering and emitting hazy fumes in the dim light of the streetlamps and the radiance pouring down from the building’s windows. The staring only lasted for a few minutes before it was abandoned, because even Mopper’s dysfunctional clothing couldn’t keep people interested all night. So the students went back to their drinking, smoking, and talking, giving the group of men the opportunity to attempt to slip quietly inside and try to find something out about the kidnapping. “To increase our ability to perform our functions more adequately, I think it in our best interest to split up. We should spread our resources and attempt to cover more ground, like on the detective drama ‘Scooby-Doo’. Perhaps Ching and I should stay close to each other and keep an eye out for information, Sanchez can go on his own and attempt to use his youthful appearance to elicit some sort of trust or rapport with the young ladies, and… Mopper and Gusto… keep an eye out for… trouble of some sort. Really, just watch our backs and… try not to be conspicuous.” “This is about the fucking pants, isn’t it?” Bernardo was already moving away from Mopper, heading inside. “No time to argue. Information is key. We are here for a reason, gentlemen. A distracted horse will always follow the reins… And a buffalo in the dark will walk off a cliff, if you gather my meaning. Let’s all just do our part, find the women that knew her, uncover all her important habits and friends, and leave this damnable place as quickly as possible.”

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Chapter 10 The Righteous College Shindig “What smells like a nickel tastes?” The young woman holding the plastic cup filled with cheap, overly-foamy, and not-entirely-cold beer from the nearby keg sniffed the air in an attempt to ferret out the source of the metallic smell that was burning her nose. “Dear God, that’s horrible.” Mopper moped nearby as he filled his plastic cup with the lukewarm beer, which he really just wanted to pour onto his red and blistered thighs, which by that point were aching and burning rather badly. They were as pink as the skin of newborn rats and he was having a hard time remembering how he was supposed to treat a chemical burn, as he most certainly would have to later that evening. It was definitely interfering with his mojo and he doubted his ability to really draw in a hot piece of ass before the night was over with this kind of a setback. This was the place to catch a young, upwardly-mobile nubile and get his rocks off, and it looked like his chances were already in the shitter. “Holy shit, man… Is that coming from you? I mean, I think your pants are smoking.” Unfortunately, Mopper knew that, amongst the wide variety of colloquial uses he’d heard of words like “smoking,” this was not one of them. And his pants were indeed smoldering with a certain slow-burning chemical reaction, but he was too proud or, most would say, stubbornly stupid to cop to it, take care of the problem, and have a better time before the night became a complete waste. So he just stared back at the girl as she stared gapemouthed at his homemade acid-washed jeans and felt like a real asshole… A real not-getting-laid asshole. He averted his gaze to Gusto so he wouldn’t fly into another rage. Gusto was hovering over the table where there was a decent spread of hors d’oeuvres laid out for all the drunken party guests. “Good hard boiled eggs.” Mopper cooled slightly, emotionally stabilizing as much as he ever could. His legs still burned like hell, though. “Hand me some of those fucking eggs.”

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Bernardo had drawn a small crowd of somewhat bewildered collegians. It may have been that they were already partially drunk, easily amused, or just extremely curious about this strange little man in the ill-fitting clothes who wore sunglasses indoors. “Yes, do any of you… dudes… know Louissa? Louissa Archipelligo?” “Hey, old man, are you some sort of narc or something?” The resident upper-crust hippie, who smoked pot and stank of patchouli just to irritate his parents (but would graduate with a Business degree and end up as a VP at a Fortune 500 company), eyed him suspiciously, especially so for someone so privileged that they’d only seen the police on TV shows and in the movies. “No, sir… I am a close friend of Louissa’s and I was just wondering if anyone had been… hanging… with her lately.” Bernardo wasn’t exactly sure about his vernacular. He was very unaccustomed to the lingo of the day and didn’t exactly know how to interact with the youth, at least as one of them. He certainly had a hard enough time with people in his own age group without even attempting to mimic teenagers. “Dude, there’s so many pieces of ass at this school, who can keep track of all of them?” Bernardo scoffed. “Well, I imagine it is made somewhere easier by her well-publicized disappearance…” “The fucking media is a scam. I don’t watch that shit.” Before he said another word and before anyone could notice he was missing, Ching dragged the loudmouth away in such a manner that anyone paying attention would have only seen him wrap an arm around his shoulder and stroll off with him, though that’s definitely not the feeling that the hippie got as he was quickly hauled off to his uncertain fate. Bernardo wrapped his arm around a nearby girl, who looked over at his hand in mild disdain. “So, how about that big sports game?”

Sanchez was having a somewhat easier time, though he wasn’t exactly mixing with the crowd quite like Bernardo. He looked somewhat more uptight, though everyone just assumed he was a loser classmate, and no one really

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questioned his being there, as he really didn’t look any older than most of the kids. He sipped at a beverage and tried to mill around the room, though he really didn’t know exactly how to interact with the partygoers. Everyone seemed to be having a reasonably good time, though it wasn’t particularly as rowdy as he had always imagined these college shindigs. Little did he know that there was something about nightly keg parties that eventually wore down your desire to have a wild time, until it became the regular mode of hanging out with your friends, no different than grabbing a cup of coffee or playing eighteen holes of golf, except for the imbibing of what amounted to poison in the hopes that your brain became deluded and feverish. There were even a few people on the outskirts of the reveling actually studying while the others were drinking and having a good time. No one bothered them, either, it being completely accepted. The party never really ended, so, sooner or later, everyone had to take time to study, at least a little bit, even if it meant doing it in the middle of a party. Sanchez walked from room to room, only ever getting the occasional glance of pity or disdain, otherwise being completely ignored. He tried to smile and keep his spirits up, but this reminded him too much of his time in school and that certain teenage loneliness he thought he’d left behind many years before. But here it was again and he was right back where he was before, uninteresting and untouchable. As he wandered toward the back end of the large dorm house, past the kitchen, toward the dark recesses of the rear, a door opened in front of him and a young woman stumbled out, nearly toppling him. He caught her, just in time, before she took a header into the floor, cradling her body in his arms. “You okay?” He looked into the crisp blue eyes staring back out at him from under red bangs. As he set her back onto her feet, he got a better look at her. She was exceptionally attractive and far out of his league, petite, beautiful, with long red hair and a gentle smile. Though, truth be told, almost everything was out of his league. “Thanks. I got sick in the bathroom… and had a little trouble walking…” She laughed and leaned in awfully close to his face, so that he could smell her breath, which was like a hot dog burp doused in vodka. “Thanks for catching me. I

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could have got hurt… falling.” She smiled too hard and her face scrunched up like she smelled something bad. “No problem. You’re lucky I was standing there.” She was still squinting as she laughed and swayed slowly, toward and away from him, like a tree in the breeze. “I know! Lucky… Thanks.” She didn’t stop on the next sway and leaned in close enough to plant a little kiss, slightly off of his lips, but as close as she could manage without being able to aim worth a damn. Sanchez didn’t move, as he was still in a bit of shock, and found himself frozen. As the girl tried to walk away, back toward the front of the building, her left foot nearly slid out from under her and she slammed right into the wall. Sanchez rushed forward to grab her as she slid down to the floor. “These damned shoes…” She looked down at the three inch soles on her glorified sandals, a style which Sanchez was not knowledgeable enough about shoes to identify by name, but it was the type of thing that all the young girls were wearing. “Thanks again… I’m Barb.” She halfway shook the hand he was trying to pull her back up with, her body flopping limply. Finally getting her on her feet, he smiled at her and remembered that he could speak. “I’m Clevel.” She swayed and barely managed to stay upright. “You new here? I don’t remember you.” “Yeah, you could say that. I just recently moved down from Northrut. I’m here… visiting some friends.” “Totally cool.” Barb then started to collapse again, Sanchez being ready for the eventuality, and he was able to keep her standing upright. “Are you sure you should be standing up? I mean, you seem pretty bad-off to me…” “Yeah…” Barb looked around slowly, taking the kitchen in. “I’m starting to feel a little dizzy.” She took a step toward Sanchez and nearly buckled again. “Is there anywhere I can sit you down?” “You could take me up to my room.” Barb wrapped her arms around Sanchez’s neck and, squinting again, smiled into his face. “Sure, I can do that.” She squeezed him in what he gathered was meant as a hug before starting to slide down his body. “You’re the best…”

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Sanchez threw her arms back around his neck and helped her limp back toward the party. “You said ‘up’? Upstairs? How do I get up there?” Barb spun them around, pointing back the way they came. “The back stairs, silly. Next to the bathroom.” Sanchez struggled to keep her upright. “Back stairs. Cool.”

“So, you knew her pretty well?” Bernardo was talking to the peppy but snide girl named Leanne, who claimed to have been close friends with Louissa and a former suitemate. “Shit, yeah. I mean, we roomed for a quarter before the rooms got switched because two of the other girls really weren’t getting along, so we got switched up, you know? She was quiet. I mean, I don’t think she really wanted to be here. I think she was more interested in living off daddy’s money and giving up on this school thing, but he didn’t want any of that. Daddy had a lot of plans for her, always calling her up complaining about the people she was seeing, what she was doing. Control freak, you know? If my dad pulled that shit with me, I’d have my mother take away his allowance for a few months. Bossy asshole.” Bernardo stroked his chin, realizing that the girl was looking at him, waiting for some further response. He tried to stay in character. “Totally. That is such… crap.” “You know? But she never listened anyway… She pulled all this nice girl ‘I’ll do whatever you want, daddy’ stuff, but that was all bullshit. She did whatever the hell she wanted and just tried not to get caught. No telling what she got into. Her dad was always pissed about some boy she was seeing. He told her she wasn’t going to hook up with some poor piece of shit. I don’t blame him there. I mean, there’s all sorts of losers trying to marry into money. And she wasn’t the sharpest knife, you know?” “So, you wouldn’t be surprised if she got into something… um, totally bad?” “Oh, no… She was a goody-goody. That girl wouldn’t have gotten involved in anything crazy. She didn’t even drink or smoke. I mean, all she ever did was get involved with boys. She had bad taste, too. That streak ran deep and every time one loser would move on, she’d find a new one.

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All these girly crushes on guys that her dad hated, but he had people watching her, so he always knew, no matter how much on the down-low she kept it, you know?” “Mmm.” Bernardo’s non-committal moan was the best he could manage while he was trying to parse exactly what the girl was saying. And, as much as she gossiped, it was hard to keep up. Leanne’s eyes darted away from Bernardo and toward a nearby assortment of liquor bottles and mixers. “Um… Talking’s fun and all, man, but I think there’s a Screwdriver calling my name, okay?”

Sanchez helped Barb onto her bed, or at least what he assumed was her bed, in the darkness. “The light switch is over there.” Flipping it on, a world of pink and white was revealed to him. Being an only child and having no sisters, he was still somewhat in awe of the ability of young women to coat everything in their lives in bright pastels and still manage to function normally within the confines of society. Barb vainly kicked at her shoes, trying to dislodge them from her feet, moaning softly to herself as she attempted this task. Sanchez moved back to the bed. “You want me to help?” She stopped her kicking and opened her eyes wide at him, really looking at him for the first time since she stumbled out of the bathroom. “Sure.” He unbuckled the strap and removed the first shoe, Barb writhing slightly on her comforter and closing her eyes. “You okay?” As Sanchez pulled off the second shoe, she rubbed her naked feet together. “Mm-hmm.” Sanchez had no idea how to continue this strange conversation and started to back away from the bed, trying to think if there was a way he could bring up Louissa Marianna Archipelligo without it seeming awkward, though she was probably too drunk to even notice. One could argue she was too drunk to give any useful information, but it hadn’t yet occurred to Sanchez at that moment. “There. That’s better.” “Yeah… Though could you close the door?”

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“Um… Sure.” Barb flopped around on the bed in a drunken haze, like a fish used to swimming in cheap booze marooned upon dry land, as Sanchez attended to the door. “And could you help me get these jeans off?” Sanchez turned and blanched at the request. “What?” “Come on, Cleveland… It’s no big deal. I can’t go to bed if I don’t have someone help me out of these clothes.” Sanchez stared at the empty bed on the other side of the room, as if help would magically appear and come crawling out from under a fluffy pink and white comforter to prevent him from being embarrassed. “What about your roommate? Can’t she help you?” “She isn’t here… She could be gone all night... Probably off boning her boyfriend. Just pull them off real quick.” She smiled slightly at him and most of his spine melted away. Sanchez moved over to the bed, where Barb arched her back and unbuttoned her pants. Still quite unwilling to accept what was going on, he slowly touched the fabric at the end of the tight jean legs and tried to avert his gaze from her body. As Barb kicked up slightly, he gave a couple of tugs and then whipped the pants off of her, revealing the long legs and thong she wore beneath. He immediately turned around, not quite looking away fast enough to prevent his flushed embarrassment, and started to move away from the bed. “Okay, then…” Barb’s voice came from behind him. “You forgot the sweater.” Sanchez broke into a cold sweat, a feeling of sudden fever overtaking him, his breathing labored as he briefly looked back at her. Barb stared back at him with her drunken squint, grinning stupidly and still kicking her naked legs slightly in the air. He moved back toward the bed almost hypnotized before realizing what he was doing and heading back for the door with an abrupt turn. He made it nearly halfway back to the exit before turning, flustered, and headed back for the bed again, dizzy. “Um… I’ll just get this done real quick and put you to bed, okay?” Barb seemed to purr slightly. “Mmm… Okay.” She held her arms over her head as Sanchez took hold of the ends the sleeves of her pink sweater, which he thought had been rolled up, but only came down to her midforearm, something he’d been noticing was common about women’s clothes lately. He couldn’t quite fathom why women needed clothes whose sleeves were too short to fit 103

their entire arms but weren’t short enough to actually be comfortable. As he pulled gently on the sleeves, she shook her red curly locks back and forth until they disappeared through the neck hole. The sweater slid up from her midriff over her chest and slid easily off, leaving him staring as her naked breasts. This barely had time to register in his mind before she reached up and pulled him down on top of her. “You’re pretty cute.” She kissed him and he tasted vodka. Strong vodka. And a slight hint of vomit. Sanchez’s arms limply tried to push his body away from Barb and he felt her hot skin against him. “Mmmm!” She mistook his moan of surprise and distress for enjoyment and wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding into him while lifting herself up to his struggling body, and grabbed one of his wrists with her hand, forcing his fingers onto her right breast before diving back into his face, which quickly cut off the torrent of shocked complaints that would have otherwise erupted. Just when Sanchez thought there was no escape for him, there was a knock at the door. “Who’s that?” he hissed, breathing heavily, more out of general distress over the whole situation, though Barb read it as being annoyed by the interruption of their festivities. Her words slurred as she gave the door a momentary glance. “Who knows… Probably my boyfriend.” She pressed her alcohol-laced mouth back to his as he scrambled to push her away yet again, though with more vigor. Finally getting himself up and away from her embrace, he gasped for air. “What? Boyfriend?” Barb dragged him back down with amazing strength for such a small, frail-looking girl, placing his face firmly between her breasts. “Barb? You in there?” The man’s voice rumbled, even through the door, with a depth that Sanchez had never imagined out of a human being. It sounded more like an avalanche or a rockslide than the voice of a man. Barb only broke away from her molestation long enough to scream “Fuck off, Ron!” Sanchez couldn’t believe he was stuck in this and had managed to get himself involved with a drunken girl, angry at her boyfriend, using him as a sexual pawn. It was just

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like the sexual education films had warned him about in high school. “What are you doing in there?” The gorilla began beating at the door. “I’m fucking a real man!” Those words rang in Sanchez’s ears for what seemed like an eternity. Time slowed down, the thick smell of a drunk’s vomit on him and in his nose, his muscles locked, and the warm sweat of Barb’s chest rubbed into his boyish face. He tried to pull away, but he couldn’t move in this void, like the world was quicksand and he was swimming in it. His life flashed before his eyes as everything came to a still and silent frozen moment before the door exploded open.

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Chapter 11 Making Friends and Influencing People (By Roasting Them Alive) Gusto sat on the expensive but somewhat dilapidated couch in the living room, facing the front door and adjacent to the main stairwell to the second floor of the girl’s dormitory house, pressed in between two of the larger, meatier dudes at the party, both of whom were drunkenly entranced by his story. “So, then we busted down the door and these two naked chicks are hanging all over this Lupo Von Steuper character. And we’ve already got our guns drawn and got ‘em pointed at the guy, screaming ‘Get the fuck down, we’re the cops!’ But that douchebag don’t listen. He drew his gun and pulled one of these topless babes in front of him… I knew I’d seen her before… I seen her… Hey, Mop?” Mopper was standing nearby, thighs blistered, drinking from a huge plastic cup of straight bourbon. He was sulking and didn’t want to do anything but drink until the lunchmeat rolls he’d had earlier came back up with a vengeance. Then he’d finally understand something about the evening with a concrete clarity. “Fucking what, Gusto?” “That broad from Lupo Von Steuper’s? Did we meet her at Bossa Nova Freddy’s or Luco Viscari’s?” “We met Donna DeHannalanna at Viscari’s and that bitch Chella at Donto Primati’s, then ran into her again at Lupo’s.” “I thought Donna DeHannalanna was the girl who shanked the ice cream scooper at Johnny Ice Cream’s Sprinkle Shack.” Mopper sighed and wished his thighs would stop burning or, at least, that something worth paying attention to would happen, as he could just as easily have stayed at home to get drunk and brood over the lack of success he was having at everything in life. “No, the ice cream girl was Gina Potiki, the girlfriend of Mo Roscoul.” Gusto’s face lit up with recognition. “Yeah! And Mo shot Don Peters!” Mopper gave a very slight nod. “In the face.” “And strangled him with a bullwhip.” “Yep, that’s the one.”

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“Man, those were the days…” Gusto returned his attention to the frat boys. “Anyway, this whore Chella was being used as a human shield… Well, let me tell you: my back, since spending the years in the factories and mines before joining the police force, was not so hot. So my shooting at a distance is for shit on the wrong day of the week, when the pain and stiffness really get up in there, particularly when it’s cold. So Mopper had to take the shot…” One of the beefy drunkards sitting next to Gusto, who’d been listening intently to the entire tale, turned with a look of hazy drunken amazement to stare at Mopper before turning back to Gusto for the payoff of the story. “Did he hit the guy?” “Well, sort of… Mopper caught that bitch in the shoulder, though it went right through and got Lupo in the neck. He bled out like two minutes later. It was like a lake in there. But, as you might imagine, Chella was pissed about getting shot.” “Instead of aiming, I was staring at her tits. But I was drunk, what did she expect?” Mopper barely paid attention to the conclusion of Gusto’s story and focused entirely on whatever women were wandering around the room, a carnivorous and angry glare in his eyes. The only reason he’d come to this damned place was to get laid, Mopper thought to himself. What other use for colleges were there, except to get drunk and naked with some hot chick? But the women that would even acknowledge his existence treated him like a leper and he was getting sick of being turned down and brushed off by a bunch of uppity college cunts. The last person to treat him so badly was Jimmy The Book. And that had only been because Mopper hadn’t paid out on a lost bet at the track for two and a half straight years. Of course, it’d also been a while since Mopper considered himself “on the market,” so he wasn’t quite used to hitting on women yet. He was much more familiar with drunkenly cheating when offered the opportunity, not having to track it down himself. Well, at least the kind that came for free. Mopper was entering one of his blacker moods and it didn’t bode well for anyone around him, as it typically led to violence or the unnecessary damaging of private property. “Yeah, so anyway, the dame was pissed about being shot, Lupo was dead, and the Chief gave us a major chewing out yet again.” 107

Mopper took a long swig of bourbon and muttered under his breath. “Fuck Pulatso. He has no sense of humor.” “Well, it didn’t help matters none that you shot Chella again later.” “She was eyeballing me. You know how I hate that.” The girl whose ass Mopper had been staring at made a quick retreat from the room as if she could feel his eyes all over her, leaving him to sneer at her hasty rush for freedom. Gusto ignored his partner and turned back to continue his conversation with the inebriated college students. “So, yeah, then we went out to get some chops. Wasn’t it Lenny’s House O’ Chops, Mop?” “Vito’s.” “Oh, right… Vito’s House O’ Pork, out Route 82. Great place. Really competitive with Lenny’s. In fact, I think Lenny and Vito were in a knife fight once…” “That’s how Vito got the scar on his cheek.” “From Lenny’s switchblade?” “Nope… While Vito’s back was turned, one of Lenny’s guys hit him in the face with a tire iron.” “That’ll definitely do the job… Vicious competitors, those two guys.” The college kids were awed, mainly because they were on the verge of alcohol poisoning and, when your brain is that close to death, almost anything is amusing and impressive. Gusto was about to go into another anecdote about gang warfare amongst groups of humorously inept mobsters, ninjas, pygmies, and a giant mutated lobster, when there was a crashing noise and Sanchez came rolling down the front stairs, landing on the hardwood floor about eight feet away from the couch with a loud thump and a heaving exhalation of breath. A huge figure, making the two beefy fellows on the couch next to Gusto look lanky and emaciated, thundered down the stairs, hands curled into fists the size of Christmas hams. The slope of his brow made the face of a Cro-Magnon look as flat as a foot of a well-poured concrete sidewalk and it was covered in a single thick black eyebrow that would have looked more appropriate wrapping around Abraham Lincoln’s jaw. This beast of a man stomped down the stairs as a tiny puff of breath and noise came out of the mangled pile of human that was Sanchez. “Help.”

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Above, a mostly-nude girl trying to cover her large breasts with a pink sweater loosely held over her chest stumbled into view, barely keeping up with the spectacle she seemed to be trailing behind, and yelled out words in an incoherent and slurred tone that let everyone in the room know that she was plastered. “Ron… You such an asshole… Leave Clever alone. He’s nice guy…” She trailed off into something unintelligible that Gusto later swore was about Sanchez’s hair. “I’m going to crush his nice-guy face into the other side of his skull until he spits out teeth!” Mopper would have liked to have thoroughly questioned the tortured logic of that sentence and ferreted out its deeper meaning, but he was focusing on the piece of ass at the top of the stairs, drunkenly wobbling and holding onto the banister with the free hand that wasn’t keeping her chest barely covered in cloth. And Mopper was intensely angry about this. It was one thing to have to come to a party like this and get cock-blocked by his own acid-soaked pants. It was one thing to get totally pissed on by every woman in sight and have to spend time telling the same stories that he and Gusto retold every night. It was fine that his cunt wife was leaving him and he hadn’t gotten laid… well, at least that he hadn’t paid for in a back alley… in many months. The thing that got him, the worst part of it all, the one thing he couldn’t stand, was that it was that douchey retard, Sanchez, who managed to get laid. If that dumbfuck was going to get the poon and he wasn’t, there wasn’t much left that Mopper had to live for. And he was furious about it. The huge animal, Ron, didn’t really have an indication of what was coming, as he was too busy picking up Sanchez off the ground and getting ready to beat the piss out of him. He was bent over his prey, one fist cocked back, the other gripping the back of Sanchez’s shirt. Ron lifted Sanchez’s limp torso up off the ground, causing his head to flop limply backwards. Mopper assumed that the man was going to punch poor Sanchez in the back of the skull. Normally, Mopper would have loved to see that, but, in the kind of mood he was in, if anyone was going to beat on someone, it was going to be Mopper and it was going to be now. Mopper caught Ron in the nose with his knee, throwing him back with a pop and the crunch of smashed cartilage. The huge bastard screamed and brought both hands up to 109

the garden sprinkler that was his blood-spurting nose, letting Sanchez drop face-first onto the hardwood with a thump and a muted “ow.” Ron took a blind swing toward the spot where Mopper had been standing, but he had madly circled around to Ron’s left, nearly frothing at the mouth with rage, to find a better angle from which to hit him again. And that punch came quickly, aimed directly at Ron’s left ear. Ron dropped to his knees, one of them landing hard on Sanchez’s pelvis, who let out another “ow,” though it was drowned out by Ron’s scream of blinding pain, right before Mopper grabbed the man by the head and dragged him off of Sanchez’s body. It was nice to finally have an outlet for all the leg pain and emotional turmoil he was experiencing, so Mopper decided to get creative. He dragged Ron’s heavy body by the back of his neck to the nearest end table and smashed his face into a ceramic and glass lamp, eliciting yet another scream from Ron and a loud click from the bridge of his nose, a sound that had Mopper grinning in grim satisfaction. “This is what you get when you fuck with the cops, shitbag!” Mopper smashed Ron’s screaming face into the remaining shards of the lamp as his words finally sunk in to the pickled minds of those around him and most of the party-goers began to scream and run for the doors. “They’re narcs! It’s a bust!” Several strange and edgy men, as strange and edgy as you find at an expensive private school, who no one had noticed were talking quietly in the next room over, a room that used to be a formal dining room at one point before it was filled with couches and made into yet another collegiate hang-out, stood up and grabbed the duffel bags that they had brought with them, pulling sawed-off shotguns or handguns from their recesses, small bags of white powder falling out all around them as they did. Before Mopper could beat on Ron anymore, the men from the other room started blasting away, removing a significant amount of drywall and destroying an assortment of furnishings. Mopper decided, for once, to be reasonable and dove for cover, leaving Ron unconscious and face down on the end table in a pool of spreading blood to catch a side full of buckshot. Gusto barely stirred from the couch, continuing his conversation. “See, kid? This type of thing happens to us all 110

the time… Something just like this happened to us when we were eating at the Big Hot Meat Burger…” “Gusto, shut your fucking mouth and get over here!” Mopper pulled out his huge revolver and slunk to the edge of the stairs, preparing to lay down fire on the college drug dealers that had mistaken them for people who cared instead of the people they were, people who just wanted to beat others senseless, get drunk, and get some snatch. Gusto slowly stood up from the couch, pulling out his .45. “I should have brought my big gun.” “You couldn’t have known… This was supposed to be a fucking party.” “Mop… It may just be the booze talking, but it seems like every time we go to a party, it ends up like this.” “Fucking point taken. Next time we’ll know better.” The drug dealers had reloaded their shotguns by the time Mopper ducked out and fired, immediately peppering the area with buckshot, barely missing tearing him apart and turning the banister into a piece of modern art. As Gusto got into a position to cover him, squatting over Sanchez’s prone body, a half-full bottle of vodka with a burning rag stuffed into it whizzed by them and shattered on a rather nice chair that proceeded to get less nice by the second. “Fucking shit!” “I’m definitely glad I’m not paying their cleaning bill. These kids today don’t appreciate nice things.” Mopper fired off several times, catching one of the coke peddlers in the chest, as the flames began to spread up the common room wall. “Well, since it’s on fucking fire, I don’t think they’ll have to worry about it for too long.” Gusto took a turn and fired several rounds, which caught one of the dealers’ backpacks, sending up a thick white plume of dust. As the dealers waved their arms and coughed in the haze of cocaine, Mopper shot another through the face. “Shit. Good thing these guys never made it into town. The Campfire Girls would have murdered these tools and taken their stash… White-bread upper-crust drug-dealing pussy fucks.” The flames were engulfing the entire room, the old building acting like a huge tinderbox. Mopper looked at the quickly-increasing inferno to their backs. “Should we get the fuck out of here?” “Sounds like a good idea to me, man.” 111

“Let’s grab Sanchez and drag him the hell out of here…” Mopper looked up the stairs at Barb, who’d passed out while leaning against the railing, dropping her sweater and leaving her sprawled over the banister in only her underwear. “What about Tits McGee up there?” Gusto shrugged. “Who cares? This fucking place is on fire.” Mopper kicked Sanchez. “Well, she’s not touching my penis, so I’m not worried about it. Let’s fucking go…”

Out front, Mopper and Gusto reunited with Bernardo and Ching. “Exactly what went on in there, gentlemen?” Bernardo was awed by the brilliant blaze that the once comfortable college domicile had erupted into. Even Ching was watching the house burn down with raised eyebrows, a bit impressed that things could have gotten so far out of hand yet again. Though Bernardo and Ching’s sense of surprise was always tempered with a certain expectation of things going awry, nearly on schedule, as if spending an evening out with the detectives of the Oberwalz P.D. was a certified recipe for violence, destruction, and mayhem. “Not much. Sanchez almost got laid, got beaten the fuck up, got me in a fight, and almost got us fucking killed by kiddy drug dealers. You know, the typical Sanchez move.” Mopper kicked at the semi-conscious body of Sanchez, still lying in the grass where he had been left since he was dragged from the blazing building. Part of the roof collapsed with a crackle, the snapping of timbers, and a gout of flame shooting up out of the opening. “I have a sinking suspicion that you did nothing to help the situation.” “Nothing major. If you consider keeping drug dealers off our streets and preventing a brother officer from receiving a beating ‘help’… Well, I probably did plenty. Shit, the Chief might give me a medal.” There was a moment of shared laughter at the absurdity of that idea. And, as quickly as it began, it ended. Mopper winced as he heard sirens and squad cars closing in from a distance, their police brethren and emergency services finally arriving much too late to be of any real use. “Great.”

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Mopper tried to avoid thinking of the browbeating he would receive as soon as Chief Pulatso arrived on the scene, which he would, and how the punishments would continue for several days or until he was murdered in his sleep by a dark, masked figure of suspiciously similar size and build to the Chief. Gusto tried to ease the tension by talking to Bernardo about the reason they had come to the party in the first place, forgotten at their earliest convenience, and now suddenly occurring to them again at this late date. “So, you find out anything?” “Not much, my friend. It sounds like Miss Archipelligo’s father is exceptionally controlling and kept the proverbial eye on her at all times. He was having her most closely watched, which forces me to wonder exactly how it is that she managed to be kidnapped in the first place, as she was being followed by her own father’s men, lest she become involved with the ‘wrong type of character’ that she was apparently prone to involving herself with. Her friends had very little of merit to say about her relationship with the man and she seemed to be far from daddy’s little angel…” Gusto nodded solemnly. “He sounds like a real winner.” “Well, it has definitely painted him in a bad light. Especially since it sounds like Louissa was quite avoidant of trouble and the only crime any of her acquaintances had committed was to be born poor. Her rebellion seems to have come in the form of social conscience and a complete lack of interest in her father’s rather mercenary business instincts and total focus on money as the central pivot on which all of life’s meaning swings. It sounds like her father was afraid she might not learn to be the hard, cold machine that he is… So this leaves us with more questions and even fewer answers, particularly regarding this man who has supposedly lost a precious daughter.” Police cruisers finally screeched to a halt in front of the building, just before the fire trucks and ambulances started to arrive in droves, far too late to save the building or anyone left inside of it. Whimpering and sooty students stood mournfully, all around the house, crying and trying to comfort each other in the wake of one of the few tragedies ever to befall them in their pampered lives. An unmarked and ancient sedan with a magnetic police light affixed to the roof screamed up the lane and barreled over the curb, coming to a halt yards away from where the group stood, students scattering in fear of being mowed 113

down. A large, middle-aged man with thinning hair and a cheap suit got out of the vehicle and, without even taking the time to take stock of the situation, began to scream, stomping quickly to where they were standing, without even bothering to turn off the car’s engine or close the door. The milling students were lucky that the car had even been put into park. “Rod! Gusto! Where are you bastards?” Mopper turned away, hoping not to be seen, and muttered under his breath. “Oh, shit. He’s really pissed.” “What in the name of ever-living fuck are you doing here? Why am I finding you at the scene of a shoot-out and arson?” Sanchez attempted to sit upright and address the police chief as he strode up to the scene. “Chief, we were looking for…” Mopper slapped him on the back of the head before he could bring up the kidnapping, Sanchez nearly collapsing in pain as his wounded head began to throb again. Finally he spurted out a more politic answer, as he had been previously coached about by Mopper and Gusto. “We uncovered a drug ring.” Chief Pulatso’s answer was spat out through gritted teeth, the sneering response a sure sign that he didn’t believe a word Sanchez said, but no one, not even Bernardo, had really expected Sanchez to pull off a believable lie. “Really now?” Mopper coughed and attempted an answer that would allow him to hopefully start building the situation up into something more advantageous to them and less likely to get them involved in another disciplinary hearing. “Yes, sir… Quite a bit of cocaine.” “And where is all this cocaine now, Rod?” The Chief’s words were breathed out like a threat and Mopper had a hard time making eye contact with his fuming superior. Everyone slowly turned, guilty expressions on their faces, and looked at the blazing house, answering Pulatso’s question without words. Chief Studge Pulatso rubbed a hand over his weary face and growled out what, at one point, could have been intended a sigh. “So, you’ve lost any evidence in the fire? Is that what you’re telling me?” “Well, we lost all the bodies in the fire, too. So you could always say that nothing happened here, except some liquored-up kids burning down a firetrap. No skin off anybody’s nose.” Mopper didn’t bother to mention all the dead students whose rich and powerful parents would be 114

receiving calls in the morning to inform them of their children’s hasty demise, who would in turn be making viciously angry calls to the Mayor and anyone else in power that they had any connection to shortly thereafter. “Yes, I suppose I could say that, if I were a completely incompetent asshole like you, Rod… Unfortunately for me, I’m not and, therefore, I have to attempt to do my job with some level of standards that you do not possess and I don’t believe you are actually aware of…” Pulatso stepped in close, pointing a finger in Mopper’s face as he screamed and turned red. “Rod, you’re lucky that you’re one of the only three detectives left in this city and that gives you an unfortunate level of job security! Otherwise I’d kick your ballsack across town right now and then set what’s left of you on fire! And then can your ass, after I was done with that! I don’t see why I’m forced to even keep you bastards employed… I could find an unlicensed drywall contractor that could do better police work than you three!” There was a loud, sharp noise and they all turned in time to see a duck waddle and flap its way out from the inferno, blazing like a roman candle. The burning fowl quacked wildly in ragged gasps and flapped its wings pathetically before finally collapsing in the grass and continuing to crackle and smolder for some time, unmoving. Pulatso stared at the shocked group of onlookers, incredulous. “And now you’ve burned a duck alive. Really, how in the fuck do you three live with yourselves?” Sanchez was almost teary, everyone else just watching dispassionately, as the bird continued to crackle and hiss on the well-manicured lawn, only feet from the still burning remains of the house. “We killed a ducky?” Mopper frowned at the outburst of childish sentimentality. “Oh, grow the fuck up…” Pulatso finally turned his attention away from his detectives, the anger dropping away. “Walterhaus? Long time, no see, buddy. What are you doing here, with these asswits?” Bernardo gave his usual flourish. “Where else would I be, Chief, if not at a swinging get-together with some of my virile male wingmen? Am I not a raging bachelor, out on my own, ready to face any situation and enjoy endless latenight shenanigans with my so-called brothers-in-arms?” Pulatso stared at him blankly, the expression of distaste and surprise locked on his face until Sanchez finally spoke up and broke the spell. 115

“A girl put her boobies on me.” Pulatso exploded. “For the love of fuck, the three of you better get in your car and get out of my sight, before I have you all killed!” Bernardo smiled at Mopper with a certain amount of pity. “I feel it best that Ching and I call a cab.” Whatever was said next was drowned out by the collapse of the burning house, falling completely inwards on itself, burying everything that was inside the blackened structure in burning debris and ash. It definitely seemed like a very good time to leave.

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Chapter 12 Business As Unusual After borrowing the cell phone of a very irate young female partygoer who was very distressed that these “skeevy” gentlemen wanted to use her phone while she was waiting on a return call from either her father or her lawyer, Bernardo made a phone call to Sugah to request a pick-up. Sugah had suspected that this would happen sooner or later, as, when you spend any amount of time with the detectives of the Oberwalz P.D., bad business tends to come to you. He was entirely prepared for this particular dispatch call and wound his way quickly through Oberwalz, past the nicer end of the Northeast business and commercial district, and on into Cherry Vine Groveland. He made his way through the large gates into St. Holy Oak, after a substantial argument with the security guard, who seemed unconvinced that anyone within would ever be in so dire a situation that they’d be caught dead in a cab and wanted to deny him entrance, wound through the gauntlet of police cars, ambulances, rescue vehicles, and fire trucks, and pulled up to the brightly burning bonfire that apparently used to be a dormitory house before the whole thing burned itself into a rather paltry pile of blackened wood. Bernardo and Ching were waiting by the curb, out front, away from the chaos of the screaming public servants, the weeping collegians, and the acrid stench and haze of the burning building. Nearby, Sugah could see a very displeased paramedic swabbing at Mopper’s nude and reddened thighs. Neither seemed to be enjoying the experience at all and, though Sugah smiled at the humor inherent in the tableau, he was compelled to tear his eyes away as quickly as possible. Bernardo and Ching climbed into the back seat, somewhat sullen, and their greetings were less than joyous. The stench of smoke filled the cab with them and Sugah coughed at the thick stench. Sugah turned in his seat and eyed the two passengers suspiciously. “So… What exactly happened here?” Bernardo, usually chipper, and Ching, always stoic, seemed demoralized by the turn of events. “Oh, the usual… Minus a solution to the case.” “Shit… So, no leads, baby?”

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Bernardo sighed and sunk into the seat. “Few, my friend. Only more questions that also require answers.” Sugah started the cab and headed for the exit of the school, a screaming and crying girl following a blackened body on a stretcher out to an awaiting ambulance filling his rear view mirror. He couldn’t get out of this place fast enough.

“Well, first off, Detective Sanchez got into some sort of disagreement with a very large gentleman, which apparently lead to Detective Rod delivering a substantial beating to his cohort’s aggressor, which, by all accounts, was much like the jackal upon the titmouse… Near this time, it was made apparent that the students were in the presence of men of the law and, fearing some sort of police raid or bust on their dormitory, made for the exits, alerting a gang of drugdealing hooligans and toughs who had come to this party to peddle their wares to the wealthy frequenters of said festivities. These peddlers, believing they were being targeting for arrest, fired upon the officers, Officers Gusto and Rod returning in kind until the criminals set the building aflame, at which point Mopper carried the wounded Sanchez from the building in a rather heroic fashion.” “Right on… Sounds like a typical night out with them… Except for all the heroic parts.” Ching held up a small piece of folded paper where both Sugah and Bernardo could see it. “Oh, yes. And Ching got a phone number.” “Way to go, Big C.” Sugah steered the cab back onto the main highway. “Well, brotha, if you got no leads, where do you want to go?” “Sugah, it’ll be back to our abode for the evening. After a good night’s rest, I feel it prudent to further investigate the good Mr. Archipelligo, who, more and more, seems to be hiding something most disturbing about his daughter’s disappearance and, perhaps, himself.” “Shit. You don’t say? That’s messed up… All those rich people are crazy. You need to check that crazy bastard.” “Indeed I shall, my friend. As soon as we recover from this evening’s momentous events. A bit of rest and recuperation and we’ll be ready to deploy our skills of subterfuge and detection to observe Archipelligo in his most

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comfortable environment: at the heart of empire.” Sugah soon dropped the men off and good luck and a good evening. All was too neighborhood and the van still sat at the unnoticed.

his business wished them quiet in their street’s end,

The noise forced Ernst Lombardo to roll over in his bed, fumbling for the lamp and cursing under his breath. He finally managed to tear the receiver of the phone from the grip of its cradle but stared, transfixed, at the readout of his alarm clock, telling him it was three o’clock in the morning. Finally, he placed the handset against his head, breathing out a hoarse “Hello?” “Dr. Lombardo?” The voice on the other end of the phone managed to finally break Lombardo from the haze of deep sleep. “Of course it’s Dr. Lombardo! You’re calling me at three in the damned morning! Who is this?” “Sir… It’s Rudy.” “Rudy, you’d better be calling me to tell me that Walterhaus is dead. Or this better be a call from the other side…” Rudy cleared his throat. “Um… Sir, we were in the middle of bringing Walterhaus back to the Institute when we happened to… um, come across the police. They were friends of Walterhaus’ and… well, saved him.” “Are you calling me to resign then? Or to phone in your suicide note?” “Um… No, sir. We’re… Well, we were in the hospital…” “What the hell are you two doing in a hospital? Looking for new jobs, I hope…” “No, Dr. Lombardo… Uh… We were beaten up pretty badly by the cops and we had to go to the hospital… Bruises, a cracked eye socket, broken ribs… Fractured testicles…” “Okay, whatever… I don’t want to hear about any of that. All I want to do is hear you assure me that Walterhaus is going to be taken care of. I don’t care what you have to do… If you can’t bring him back, then make him go away. If you don’t make this happen, you’ll never work again… In fact, I’ll have you committed myself. You’ll spend the rest of

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your life in the fourth floor ward with all the fruitcakes and scumbags you’ve spent years abusing. How do you feel about that, Rudy? Are you going to let me down again?” “Um… No, sir, Dr. Lombardo. We’ll make it happen for you.” “Good… Now get out of that hospital and get back to work.” Lombardo slammed the phone down and laid back in the bed, fuming, unable to go back to sleep.

In the morning, Bernardo and Ching prepared themselves. Bernardo yet again set aside his normal wardrobe in favor of something more conventional. Ching’s was somewhat livelier than his normal attire, the plain black being replaced with something more colorful. Attired appropriately, they caught a ride into the downtown center of Oberwalz, the home of only the largest businesses and government buildings and entered one of the largest centers of commerce and industry in the city, Archipelligo Tower. They chose not to burden Sugah further, as he likely spent the entirety of the night on duty, driving around the city. Instead, a cab chosen from one of the regular companies was dispatched to them and they had the driver leave them on the curb a block away from their intended target. In the last block of walking, they assumed their roles and were as inconspicuous as possible by the time they entered the Tower, toting their briefcases and appearing, for all intents and purposes, to be totally normal office drones. Dressed in fairly nice business suits, at least for Bernardo and Ching’s tastes and budget, and disguised well enough, they believed they would not be detected by any of the lookouts likely posted to watch for them, if such a task had been given to the security forces who would surely be aware as they closed in on the criminal empire of Desmond Archipelligo. They must have appeared entirely normal, as they easily passed into the skyscraper with virtually no notice from security personnel and traveled up the elevator to one of the highest floors in the building, the corporate center of The Archipelligo Consolidated Industries United Corporation Company, Inc., Desmond Archipelligo’s real child and the center of his daily operations.

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As they stepped off the elevator, the office was already abuzz, despite the fact that it was barely after eight, surprising Bernardo somewhat at the tremendous amount of workers already running madly around the office, passing files back and forth and frantically e-mailing their coworkers. The pathetic cries of the wage slaves were somewhat jarring, though it made it much easier to slip into the fold unnoticed, having chosen the nice business suits and, in Bernardo’s case, a fake moustache and glasses to complete their subterfuge. Ching’s part required little work, as the business suit made him look rather dapper and the two men counted on the average Caucasian’s inability to tell Asians apart from one another. It was their hope that no one would know the difference. Little did they realize how well their plan would, in fact, work. The first section directly out of the elevator doors featured rows of cubicles, where the dwellers of these imposed steel and fabric borders sat in their enclosures, typing away frantically, in difference to the average office where the morning is the least eventful portion of the day, most of the staff straggling in at their leisure and everyone spending their first hours at work too busy checking e-mail and reading the internet to get any real work done. This office seemed to be the exception, everyone furiously working under the severe scrutiny of management, jazzed up on their super mega double skim lattes, who wanted to oversee anything that needed to be done and crack the whip in the morning so that, after their long lunch, they could cut out by two o’clock to fit in a quick game of golf, eighteen holes on the days it was possible, before returning home to their expansive houses, trophy wives, hidden mistresses, and absolute strangers that referred to them as “dad” (not to exclude any women in the office in this assertion, but, truth be told, there weren’t really any in management for very long, anyway). As such, the peons all worked desperately to not be chastised for their morning shortcomings before slacking off and eventually slipping out early themselves in the afternoon. As soon as management left, the overseers of the cubicle-dwellers also left, leaving them to disappear whenever they liked, each group believing that the rung below was still dutifully working while they had it easy. Management did have it easy, though. Their work really took no skill and very little time out of their day, their decisions and inane ideas being handed down to middle 121

management to decipher and divide up for the common man to work on. The only easier job was possessed by the cleaning staff, because their job never changed and they were never asked to stay late to help out with some impossible task, created on the spur of the moment to pad out an executive’s resume with an impressive-sounding but pointless project. Of course, the pay was shit, but at least they knew what they were doing. Realistically, no one else did. Passing through the main cubicle area next to the elevators, Bernardo and Ching walked past a string of windowed offices, middle management fiendishly working within to get their portion of the day’s imperative goals and high priority projects apportioned to the appropriate staff to work on before most of them were cancelled or changed entirely by their disinterested taskmasters, more focused on where they could get a good lunch reservation or catch a game of racquetball before drinks at the bar with the boys. At the end of the hall were nicer executive offices, where people with “Vice President” in front of their names sat behind large, expensive imported wooden desks and did most of their work via a series of clipped phone conversations or messages being sent on small hip-mounted portable devices while they screamed at an underling over a tiny wireless headset protruding from one ear. They stalked their offices all day long, screaming to no one. In the old days, they would have spent a substantial period of time at The Lombardo Institute after talking to themselves and yelling obscenities at invisible enemies, whom they accused of ruining their lives and livelihoods. Now, they were just considered to be working hard or, at very least, making an angry call to the custom cabinet company that had yet to install the special mahogany set they’d ordered for their vacation home a full three weeks before, that they were told would most definitely be in by the previous weekend at the latest, but, somehow, had yet to even be stained. Bernardo and Ching tried to check out this area as inconspicuously as possible, pretending to discuss some sort of business strategy involving a series of invented acronyms and no one paid them much notice, but they became wary as several of the executives exited their offices at roughly the same time and headed in their general direction, en masse. They turned about and attempted to head away from the group, which grew as those men knocked on doors and 122

motioned for other men to join them, but they were quickly surrounded and caught in the flow of upper management bodies, heading toward a large conference room next to the middle management offices. Particular members of this lesser group were also exiting their tiny work domiciles and heading toward them from the front like a wall blocking their path, all pouring into the conference room. Bernardo was about to attempt a push through the pack to head back toward the elevators to regroup when the man next to him spoke. “Hey, you must be from the INSAT group… You’re in this meeting, right? Think they’ve got bagels today?” Bernardo had no idea what was going on and was entirely out of his element but decided to play along to see what he could find out, though he wasn’t completely sure there would be any information of use in some bland presentation, but he could at least hope to cement the impression that they belonged there and hopefully use that advantage to spy on Desmond Archipelligo. “Um… I’m not sure. Did they have bagels at the last meeting?” Bernardo took a chance with his response giving him away, but he figured that ignorance or confusion was not an uncommon trait and that, even seeming an idiot, he still wouldn’t seem out of place here. “Yeah… Horrible dry things. I hope they didn’t order from that place again.” Ching followed Bernardo’s lead as the wave of other bodies pulled them into the room, an unbelievably long table surrounded by chairs taking up the center, other chairs set up around the room’s walls as additional seating. The man who had talked to Bernardo pointed to one side of the table at the farthest end from the white screen that took up the back wall behind the large high-backed executive chair that sat at the table’s head. “Hey, why don’t we sit over here?” Bernardo nodded and followed the man to a seat, Ching sitting on his opposite side. The seats filled up quickly and the room was soon full of bodies, chattering away in anticipation of the meeting’s commencement. Soon enough, a well-dressed executive walked into the room, followed by Desmond Archipelligo. A hush fell over the staff, a certain tenseness entering the room with Archipelligo and his lieutenant, a man who seemed to be responsible for this particular event.

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“Okay, everyone… Let’s get this done, talk over the reorg and we can get back to business. I know we’ve all got a long day ahead and we still have to work on rearranging our teams, so the quicker we’re done with this, the better. Mr. Archipelligo wanted to step in, say a few words, and see how things were going…” Desmond, who sat at the head of the table, his officer standing at his left hand, smiled and spoke to the awaiting mass of management members. “Good morning, everyone. Mr. Mickelbruson is going to handle this meeting, but I wanted to give it my blessing and make sure everything’s coming along nicely. At this time in the financial quarter, we can’t afford to spend too long on this re-org and need to take control of our teams, move quickly, strike while the iron’s hot, keep the mission statement in mind, and try to achieve total quality. I’m completely behind this initiative and I’m making it my goal that all managers make it a top priority in the coming month. Now, I’ll hand the floor back to Mr. Mickelbruson to go over the process. Ted?” There was hushed muttering before Mickelbruson stepped forward, cleared his throat, and spoke up. “Thanks, Desmond.” Ted Mickelbruson, who, it later turned out, was the company’s COO, stood next to the screen with a laser pointer. At Bernardo’s end of the room, a projector built high in the wall flared into life. The man holding the laptop that was running the computerized slides being projected onto that screen sat against the back wall, queuing up the presentation. Ready to commence, he reached back and lowered the lights, allowing everyone in the room to clearly see the display of the large organization chart that was projected on the smooth white surface, Mickelbruson already shining his red dot of light into its midst. “Alright… As you can see up at the top, the DEB will be leading this initiative from the top-down and will remain virtually unchanged from our previous org, so this will definitely be the most cut and dried part of the org restructure. You should all know the current DEB structure and all the team leads and project managers will segue normally to the new teams, which will each correspond to one of the old groups in the CID system.” He moved his pointer down to the next set of branches on what looked like a giant and convoluted family tree, featuring solid lines stretching downward to the lowest levels

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and a spider web of dotted lines connecting all matter of groups in nebulous ways. “Now, you’ll see here that the Level One groups are going to be the main base of the new org structure. The BAG is going to convert into the AAC group and oversee the RDG from now on under the guidelines set up in the Driven Software Initiative. The TDP shouldn’t worry about this decision, because they’ll be overseeing our INAP initiative for the next year, so they’ll have their hands full.” There was a grumble from several people in the room and various heads nodded in somber agreement at the unintelligible muttering. Bernardo scanned the faces in the room and recognized no one else of interest. The man he was there to spy on sat at the other end of the long table, between them two dozen generic middle managers and executives, none of whom seemed terribly excited by the morning’s events but glad not to be doing real work. He and Ching would have to bide their time and keep their eyes open until they had a chance to check into Archipelligo’s dealings. “Now, as you can see, the TDP will henceforth be known as the Internal Infrastructure Team and will be seeing to the whole current PLC branch after transition.” He motioned downward with his pointer. “You can see that its structure will remain relatively unchanged, though the responsibilities will be shifted between teams…” Most of the people glazed over during this section of the presentation, taking to doodling in their notebooks or imagining what their lives would be like if they had gone into dentistry, food service, waste management at the grist mill, or any other more intellectually rewarding business. Bernardo even swore that several of the people had dozed off, but in the dim lighting no one could tell if their eyes were open, not as long as they stayed upright in their seats. The next twenty minutes flew by in a stream of seemingly disconnected phrases and visual slides that drowned Bernardo’s consciousness in indecipherable acronyms and the misuse of words that he was sure didn’t mean what Mickelbruson thought they did. Somewhere toward the end of the long diatribe on the new and ever-changing relationships between insignificant artificial sub-divisions of the corporate structure, Bernardo tuned back into Mickelbruson’s speech, lest he become too comatose to function properly and lose sight of their mission. “It’s imperative that the new Integral Logistics Group conforms to all changes with the Overseas 125

Organizational Initiative. This will be a cornerstone in a forward-facing quality initiative to increase our core competencies and align our business solutions to optimize our enterprise tools and practices. We must have excellence in all areas that touch on the BEM Task Force and practice due diligence. Six-sigma, people.” There was another unemotional rumble of acknowledgement burbled from the mass of managerial cogs, desperate to escape from the stifling boredom of the meeting back to busywork and free bagels. “I want to see total quality at all times. Do you hear me, people? This office is on the verge of best-shoring employees. We need to really energize and actualize our value-added properties! This is crunch-time, kiddies, and you need to recognize that bleeding-edge innovation is essential to core growth. If you’re not being part of the solution, you’re part of the problem! And we can’t afford that right now… Now I’d like to go to some of the committee and task force heads to see where things are going off-process and where they’re being proactively leveraged…” As the lights drifted back up, casting brilliance on the room and forcing the employees to snap to fully-wakened attention, Bernardo leaned in close to Ching’s ear. “I don’t think I’ve followed a word this gentleman has said.” Mickelbruson took a pull off of his bottle of expensive imported water, which was actually just filtered municipal tap water from a small bottling plant in West Texas, though he was far too upwardly mobile to realize that cheap water and expensive water taste exactly the same. Desmond Archipelligo stood up and looked out over the mass of his inferiors like the glossy moguls of the 1950’s, always pictured staring off into the future with a devil-maycare smirk and the squint of tempered knowledge. “Okay, people, that’s all the time I’ve got for today. I’m going to step out for a business meeting I have on a land development project for the company… There’s big things to come in that area. But Ted is going to run you through some more hoops…” Archipelligo chuckled to himself, others desperately and sycophantically laughing along. “After you’re done with that, hopefully we’ll all be on the same page. I want to see total quality people, just like Ted has told you.” Desmond rose and walked to the door, giving halfconscious waves to employees he probably didn’t know the names of, much like you would see from a beauty queen in a 126

small town parade, waving gently at no one from the back seat of a classic convertible. Bernardo wanted to give chase, but didn’t quite know how to slip out of the meeting gracefully. Within seconds of Archipelligo’s exit, Bernardo made a move to get up and leave the room, sliding out his chair quietly and attempting to stand. “Everybody stay seated…” Bernardo froze. “I know you’re busy people and many of you want to hit the head, but if you’ll bear with me for a few more minutes, I want to cover our bases with the action teams and then we’ll all get a break and get right back to work… And I’m sure I don’t need to remind many of you that we’ve had bagels brought in, which I’m sure will really help to boost morale and initiative for today, am I right? Good empowerment food.” Bernardo sat back down, unhappily, as there was a mild grumble of appreciation from the staff, entirely halfhearted, signaling yet another small death in the company’s overall morale. “Okay, who wants to go first?” There was a desperate attempt by everyone in the room to disappear or dissolve into their chairs, every face in the room veering left and right in an attempt to make no meaningful eye contact with anyone. “Bob, how about you? How’s AMS been leveraging the metrics?” A small, balding man sitting near Mickelbruson began to nervously shine the lenses of his glasses, already beginning to stutter before words came out of his mouth. Panic was setting in and it was compounded by being the first called on. “Well… well… well… We’re really… We’re really just trying to bring the… the BSR’s to proof of concept. I… I… I mean, we’re all just trying to stay proactive and synergize the process…” “Okay, Bob… Let’s not get off message here. Is your group ready for the re-org transition?” “Absolutely, sir… We’re all ready to… to get involved.” “Okay, Donald?” A tall, lanky man in a bad brown suit and combover piped up, a bit too loudly, obviously overexcited by this unexpected attention. “Yes, sir! We’re… We’re all working toward making the new infrastructure more scalable for adding value! We think we’ve gotten some really good talking points together from 127

brainstorming and we hope to push forward some real outof-the-box solutions for frictionless logistics! Everyone in the SCS is absolutely ready to champion this initiative!” Mickelbruson smiled and nodded appreciatively at the long string of words that held no meaning to Bernardo. He leaned in closer to yet againChing. “Good lord… We should have just brought Mopper and Gusto and let them distract these people or shoot someone in the leg. This is terrible.” “You down there… That’s Simpkins down there, right? Why don’t you tell us how your department is coming along...” It took several seconds for Bernardo to realize the whole room was looking at him and that Mickelbruson must have thought that he was a manager named Simpkins. It was even more shocking but unknown that the actual Simpkins was in the room and, vastly relieved to have someone else there to answer for the faults and reckless irresponsibility in his group, had made no move to correct Mickelbruson, not that there was any situation where correcting the COO would be a very smart idea. “Ah…” Bernardo was stunned and quickly ran through his memory attempting to piece together some line of rhetoric that would be suitable for this occasion. “Well, yes… We… over in the… PLM… group… We have been… assessing our… core competencies… and are ready to leverage robust paradigms… for best-practice solutions.” The eyes of people listening perked up at the string of buzzwords, so Bernardo decided to continue. “Our quarter deliverables are on point to grow a more sustainable experience… with empowering solutions front-loading… seamless integration for a… teamwork-based win. Proactive workflow… coordination can facilitate scalable technology… to build a bridge to excellence and interoperability by… better harnessing intellectual capital.” Mickelbruson squinted inquisitively. “And what about you, Chow?” Eyes shifted to Ching and it was confirmed to Bernardo that all Asians looked the same to white businessmen. Ching didn’t stutter or seem taken aback, though he spoke every word with slow, thoughtful purpose. “Totah quarity inichitive bring innovative missioncritacar technorogy to PLM group infrarstrucha association weeth ADAE group.”

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The room was silent followed by a short burst of light applause. Mickelbruson smiled grimly to himself. “That’s what I’ve been talking about! Ideas, people! Simpkins and Chow here have the right ideas about what needs to be done around here… Now, let’s get out there and assertively engineer market solutions!” Mickelbruson looked at his watch, concerned. “Okay, people! That’s all for today!” Mickelbruson was the first out of the door and everyone poured out of the meeting after him, milling around the hall area and seeking out bagels. A few people muttered “good job” as they passed Bernardo and Ching on their way out. They exchanged somewhat shocked glances at how easy it was to blend in amongst these strange people and how little of meaning they actually managed to say amongst the piles of horseshit that they called business conversation. It was amazing that they ever got anything done at all between all the meetings to discuss how well they seemed to think they should be doing. “Well, Ching, now I believe we can move about unhindered by the interest of others. We’ve proven ourselves and will doubtless be left to our own devices…” The two men exited the room as smoothly as possible, giving small nods and waves to the other workers, who seemed to now pay them somewhat more attention, many of them seeming to bitterly discuss their dislike of “Simpkins” and “Chow” behind their backs, referring to them in private as “ass kissers” and “upper-management whores.” Though, by that time, Bernardo and Ching were gone and no one really noticed that they never saw Simpkins and Chow again.

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Chapter 13 The Roof Is On Fire Bernardo and Ching roamed the hallways, generally being ignored, just as they preferred, by the office workers crowded in the hallways, chewing on half-stale bagels while they talked about work. Not because they enjoyed work, but because if they were caught talking about anything else, they’d be severely reprimanded for wasting good time that could be spent on actual business-related matters. This was the stifling atmosphere of The Archipelligo Consolidated Industries United Corporation Company, Inc., which many people referred to by the acronym “TACIUCCI”, sounding more like an Italian than a business, the whole naming trend being confusing to Bernardo, who felt that names were entirely sufficient and acronyms were a sure sign that one had unwisely chosen a name to begin with. But at least the scrutiny placed on the two of them was minor at this point and they were able to stroll around the office with an air of busyness and importance. Meanwhile, they were actually reconnoitering the various offices, trying to find some information on Desmond Archipelligo or, more importantly, find his office. The floor’s hallway wrapped around the building in a not-quite-complete circle that started at the elevators and staircase where they had entered the floor and the cubicles surrounding them, worked its way around past the lower management’s offices, past the conference rooms and yet more offices, and finally reaching the upper-management, vice presidents’ and company officers’ luxurious suites. Vice presidents Edward McCullen-Feinstein, George G. Pisselsimmon, and Rourke Magginy had offices stretching out across one side of the hallway, blind-covered windows revealing glimpses of large rooms with couches, expensive office furniture, leather desk sets, shining chrome paperweights and desk toys, and all the accoutrement one would expect from a corporate VP with a virtually unlimited expense budget. Surely even nicer, the next offices were for the CFO, Burt Mulliguin, and COO, their new friend Ted Mickelbruson, closed off from the hallway by expensive wooden doors and sharing a single secretary, who sat in an alcove between the two offices. The secretary gave Bernardo and Ching a fleeting look as they passed by before returning her 130

concentration to her computer screen, where she was likely wasting time finding recipes online or doing some internet shopping on the company clock. At the end of the hallway was a double door, made out of the same fine wood as that which sealed Mulliguin and Mickelbruson’s offices, guarded in front by an even larger desk and an even more attractive secretary, though they would tell you they’re not secretaries anymore, instead being referred to as “administrative assistants,” a nomenclature somehow adding a greater prestige to the job of taking someone’s phone calls and scheduling their daily meetings as if they were invalids, needing a mother-figure to baby them. Working for CEO Desmond Archipelligo, this must have been a fairly easy, though still low-paying, position, what with his distaste for doing real work and his endless capacity for not being in the building for as long as possible, instead spending his time at mysterious off-site company locales, golf courses, country clubs, and clandestine meetings with nefarious individuals seeking his guidance, help, approval, or off-the-book business. Bernardo sauntered up to her desk, followed by Ching, realizing that there was no way to sneak around the young woman, so he might as well attempt small talk, ultimately futile but better than doing nothing at all. “Hello there…” Bernardo adjusted his gaze to her name plate, informing him that she was Sandy Van Petersburger. “Sandy. Desmond already stepped out?” Sandy was already eyeing them quite suspiciously and replied with a certain unveiled contempt, bristling at Bernardo’s familiarity. “Um… Yes. Mister Archipelligo is already gone for the day. Important meeting, you see. Plus, he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.” Bernardo attempted to keep applying his meager charm to the situation in the hopes that it might count for something, though it most surely would not. “Yes, I understand. I’m Simpkins… Um, Don Simpkins. This is Mr. Chow.” Ching bowed slightly. “We just had a couple of documents for, um… Mr. Archipelligo. We thought we’d just drop those by to him, since they’re most important to the continued development of the company.” Sandy frowned and held out her hand. “Well, if you give them to me, I’m sure that I’ll get those to him as soon as I can.” Her voiced dripped with the implication that Archipelligo would never allow himself to be debased with 131

simple documents and, whatever it was that she was brought, it would go into the shredder, immediately paying the price for her intense dislike of Bernardo and Ching. “Yes… Unfortunately, I can’t do that for you, my dear. I’m bound, nay, assigned the daunting and thankless task to make sure they reach his eyes only. I could perhaps place them on his desk with my very hand…” He could tell in her dead eyes that it would never, in a million years, happen. “It’s for security purposes. Very important, you see, top secret, most clandestine and particular of details that must reach his eyes. A pointless detail, but an important one. I must insist that only he lays hands upon them, as though the hands of others could be likened to Midas, turning the meaning of these papers into gold, valuable, to be sure, but lacking all the information so necessary to pass on. And that’s the level of importance these documents possess, you must understand. More valuable than gold.” “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that, Mr. Simpkins.” “Surely there’s some way in which we can work this matter out, allowing for you to do your duties appropriately and for I to lay these papers upon the firm domain of his surely gigantic oaken desk. Are we at such an impasse, dear Sandy?” Bernardo shimmied slightly, as if to somehow flaunt a sexuality that he didn’t really possess, this pathetic flirtation a last-ditch effort to do his best to not have to gain entry by less-than-honorable means. “Yes.” There was not a whit of joy, empathy, or humor in her and Bernardo felt something small being stolen from his soul by her very presence. “We are.” “Well, then we shall return some other time… Mr. Chow?” With a curt turn, Bernardo made his way back from whence they had come. Ching turned and followed his master back up the hallway, leaving behind the silent and incensed Sandy, only too glad to see them and their distracting antics go. Getting some distance between themselves and Sandy, Ching sidled up to Bernardo, who was thinking hard about the next move. “Well, Ching… I don’t think we’ll be examining things any further until we can manage a distraction that will draw his young secretary away. The question remains, how will we allow ourselves both suitable time and remove this harridan from the locale? She most assuredly will not go without a most excellent and plausible cause, a violent act, 132

or wild horses dragging her with rope and chain away from the area like my Great-Great-Grandmother Stevenson.” They made their way back to the area where a few employees were still partaking in the free bagels. Bernardo and Ching attempted to camouflage themselves by picking over the stale baked goods, though there wasn’t much left to be had and it all appeared direly unappetizing. Bernardo looked around the room for some means of distraction and devised a simple and, unfortunately, extremely destructive and disruptive plan.

When there was a moment that no one was in the room and the coast was completely clear, Bernardo, keeping watch for anyone walking by that might catch them in the midst of their dirty deed, signaled Ching to go ahead and complete the first part of their plan, if what little there was could even be referred to as a plan, at least by anyone that wasn’t Mopper or Gusto. Ching set a bundle of papers, financial documents and newspapers, on fire, quickly getting a good blaze going. Using this bundle of flaming paper, tightly rolled up like a torch to handle it more easily, Ching proceeded to set the bagel table alight, slowly but surely. Within moments, vinyl and plastic were impressively melting and peeling away from metal and pressboard, thick black smoke and noxious fumes spewing forth from the bright flames, and the cardboard bagel box crackled and popped, emitting a smell of burnt toast into the room, which mixed with the wretched aroma of melting plastics to choke them both. Ching threw the burning torch of rolled paper into the recycling bin, which also ignited like a barrel full of oily rags, and moved back to a safer distance. Before anyone could really take notice, Ching and Bernardo rushed from the room, heading around the corner until witnesses finally wandered by to spot the blaze and call for help. The first cries from some hungry man who wandered in bellowed forth from the room in near-sobs, seeming to echo along the hallway. “Oh, God! The bagels are on fire!” Quickly turning the corner, Bernardo and Ching joined the onlookers. Bernardo acted out his surprise in a rather believable way, frantically running back and forth and yelling

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something about fire extinguishers. Others took up the first man’s call, looking into the room, and spreading word all along the office that their break room was burning steadily and that the free breakfast was over. Ching had done too good of a job, because the fire was already leaping up the wall and showed no signs of stopping its climb. It could probably be put out with a few well-placed fire extinguisher bursts, but that wouldn’t suit their plan nor would it have occurred to any of the employees to do so. Ching, in continuing their plan, pulled the fire alarm, causing those who hadn’t already heard the first cries of distress or hurried to watch the disaster as it unfolded to leap from their cubicles and head toward the stairwell downward in the most orderly panic possible. Bernardo and Ching headed back toward the executive offices, passing word to everyone they saw that one of the break areas was on fire and that everyone should evacuate as quickly as possible, sending them almost without fail running for their miserable lives. They arrived at the first secretary, yelling for her to hurry before the fire spread out of control. She was grateful for the news, or at least an excuse to leave her desk, and moved on without question, taking her purse and darting out like she was leaving for a long lunch. Finally reaching Archipelligo’s frowning secretary, they could already see the displeasure written onto her face, part of it possibly stemming from having to see them again so soon. “Quick, Sandy! The break room is on fire! Someone burned the bagels!” “You don’t say…” “We’ve got to get out of here!” Sandy rather unwillingly left her desk and followed at a reasonable distance behind Bernardo and Ching as they hurried up the hallway, drawing her back toward the stairs, obviously still not quite believing the suspicious duo. As they reached the elevator area back by the cubicle farm, they hurried even farther ahead, leaving a good distance between themselves and the strolling Sandy. They made their way into the stairwell and broke away from the press of bodies, heading up the stairwell toward the roof. They were able to peek down the center of the stairwell, over the railing, waiting to finally see the suspicious Sandy make her way down the stairs. After they saw her begin her descent, the two men crept back down, 134

watching her spiral downward and, sure they were safe, then made their way back onto the floor, heading down the hallway toward the executive offices, the flames now well outside the confines of the break room door. The sprinklers were finally activated by the heat and smoke and, springing to life about five minutes too late to be effective, began showering the entire area, cubicles, offices, computers, files and all, with water. Bernardo and Ching doubled their pace, running down the hallway through the indoor rain to the bright wooden doors of Archipelligo’s office. Grabbing the door handles, Bernardo twisted them to throw the doors wide open. The handles wiggled but the doors stayed firmly in place, not budging an inch. “Damnation!” Bernardo stepped back and Ching, taking his lead, sprang forward with a powerful kick, slamming the doors back into the interior walls of Archipelligo’s office. They moved inside, the CEO’s fine office slightly less wet than the exterior, there being, for some unknown and inexplicable reason, fewer sprinkler fixtures inside, but still the water fell, continuing to soak their very nice suits and everything inside the room. Bernardo’s moustache washed away in the torrent of water and it was in their best interest to move quickly and get out of this place before someone found them out and recognized Bernardo or, even worse, the fire department arrived and they had to explain what they were still doing here, in the CEO’s office, and why they weren’t the ones that had set the building alight in the first place. Bernardo and Ching wordlessly worked as a team, starting their search at the front of the room, moving over the bric-a-brac, past the fine leather furniture, to the massive and expensive desk, which they circled, trying to keep water off of everything of seeming importance. Ching shielded the computer monitor with a binder, the tower fortunately being stored under the desk where it was mildly protected from the torrential downpour, while Bernardo pored through drawers and papers laid out on the desk as they began to soak with water. Leaving binders on top of the monitor like a cardboard and vinyl roof, Ching went to work trying to find files or notes on the computer that would lead them to a better understanding of what Archipelligo might be hiding. Bernardo continued to tear through papers and folders, looking for answers as to what Desmond was spending his time and energy on, looking for some sort of 135

fingerprint for all his supposed criminal ties, and skimming for anything generally useful, a task that is far from easy under the pressure of limited time and while being sprayed with cold water. The monitor finally popped and went black in a sparking, water-induced short-out. Their time was basically up, so Bernardo gathered the most promising-looking papers and folders and, throwing them into their until-now empty briefcases, they rushed back to the stairwell and headed down to safety and escape. On their way down, they passed firemen and emergency personnel rushing upwards, who gave them blessedly little notice, other than asking which floor they came from and if they were all right. Once they reached the lobby, Bernardo and Ching headed for the back of the building, slipped out a back door, and were gone before the bagel arson was ever uncovered. It would be so long before things were back in order at the office, long enough to confirm that any information was stolen, that Archipelligo wouldn’t even realize that they’d been through his papers and computer for several weeks. By then, they’d hopefully have all the answers they needed and the case would be solved, for better or worse. Mopper and Gusto would have been proud of them.

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Chapter 14 The Art of Home Invasion Bernardo and Ching sat at the kitchen table in Bernardo’s brownstone, discussing the information they had gathered, their impressions of the situation, and spreading out the stolen papers, which they were going over in great detail in an attempt to discover some answer to the question of exactly what the hell Desmond Archipelligo was up to and who Ringlon Angosto was, not even beginning to wonder why his name was such a hushed secret that it kept people speaking in whispers and looking over their shoulders. The case was quite the conundrum and a variety of things weren’t adding up or making nearly enough sense to Bernardo. More so than any case he’d taken on previously, Bernardo was feeling that there was something inherently wrong with the Archipelligo case, something he couldn’t place his finger on, something dire and dark hidden in the deep crevices of this particular puzzle, which was obviously hindering his ability to solve it and put the whole affair to rest. There was definitely something here he couldn’t see, something being missed entirely. The life of a young woman was in limbo and no one had answers, words, reasons, or explanations as to why her kidnapping had even taken place, much less who had her, where she’d gone, and why she was taken. Really, if this was a kidnapping, it would have been considered nearly as efficient as the postal system: on the surface, it seemed to work, but, deep down, it was horribly flawed, barely coherent, and ruined people’s lives every day of the week. And, generally, one hopes to claim some amount of money when they bother to kidnap someone, no matter how incompetent a criminal they are. The briefcases filled with slowly drying papers were going to be their last chance to get back on the trail of the crime, whether it was kidnapping or otherwise. So every piece of paper was of vital importance, though they weren’t yet sure for what. The blur of wet ink and the sticking together of the moist wood pulp was making their job all the more difficult, though. Spreading everything out as best they could, they had started to discuss the day’s events.

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“Ching, did you find anything of importance in Mr. Archipelligo’s daily schedule on his computer.” Ching, hovering over a day planner that had been on Archipelligo’s desk, compared it to his memory of what the computer held and pointed at a particular entry. “Ten o’crock meeting, today, risted ass Oberwarz Morntain Autoroty. Reft meeting to go to. On computah, risted as ‘meeting wirth RA’. No otha recod of ‘RA’ in plannah.” “Ringlon Angosto?” “Most rikery, suh.” Bernardo smiled. “Then we’re on to something, Ching. We’re at least closing in on the mysterious Ringlon Angosto. Now we just have to find something in these documents regarding the even-more-mysterious Oberwalz Mountain Authority… I can’t remember having heard of this Authority previously. And, there only being the one mountain of any merit in the region, I would wonder why such a group would be necessary. Mount Oberwalz, its surrounding state park, and the abandoned catheter mines from the 1880’s are all overseen by the state park services. Mount Oberwalz being the only mountain in the county limits their area of potential operation to one place only… Perhaps this Oberwalz Mountain Authority is, in fact, a front for Ringlon Angosto’s operations.” All the moist and runny papers were shuffled through as quickly as was possible in their still-unstable condition, searching for an answer to the question.

Outside, in the van at the end of the street, they’d finally heard enough. Walterhaus was getting too close to their employer and they weren’t going to have him interfere in any more business. The first man in black opened the back doors of the equally black, windowless van and stepped down onto the street, followed by three other men in black, his apparent subordinates. An older man, tending to a window box of flowers just outside the building they had parked in front of, noticed them exiting the vehicle and was very annoyed. “Hey, there! You assholes!”

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The four men in black looked over, tightening their black leather gloves, and arranging their ski masks, rolled up on their heads like stocking caps. Their leader responded. “What did you say?” The old man’s voice scraped out again, much more annoyed than before and doubly loud. “You shitbags have been blocking the front of my apartment for three days now. You don’t live here! And, it seems, you’ve just been jerking off in the back of a van the whole time, so I was wondering why the fuck you’re blocking parking spaces for me and my neighbors, you inconsiderate cock.” “Fuck off.” The first man in black began walking down the street toward Bernardo’s brownstone, completely pulling down the ski mask. All faces suitably disguised, he took a pistol from his coat and began to screw a silencer into the barrel, the other three men in black following suite with his every move. “Fuck me? Fuck you!” The old man could still be heard in the distance screaming as they made their way down the sidewalk and, though attention from his neighbors began to gather, the four men thought nothing of it.

Bernardo and Ching looked over the papers having specifically to do with the Oberwalz Mountain Authority, being mainly a few documents about land rights, county ordinances, and maps of an outlying area, which was indeed the area surrounding Mount Oberwalz, a decent sized mound of what was believed to be mostly solid rock lying out to the far Southeast of Oberwalz, on the other side of the East Oberwalz River. It had been designated as part of the state park system some years back, but it seemed that, through some manner of political finagling and manipulation, Archipelligo had managed to gain the rights to do “exploratory scientific drilling and mining” in certain areas around the base and West face of the mountain. In a way it was somewhat impressive that a man like Archipelligo could do nearly anything and get away with any plot with only the help of his political ties, but Bernardo had to wonder exactly what he hoped to gain with this enterprise and what it then had to do with Ringlon Angosto, whose name so chilled even the hearts of stony criminals but was virtually unknown outside those certain circles.

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“Ching, we’re going to have to visit this site and see what we can find. There are no offices listed, no other sites, and the day planner mentions a meeting at the OMA site once every two weeks for the past two months. Surely, if Archipelligo is bothering to meet out on a mountain, it’s not just to discuss upcoming events, join a book club, or plan a picnic… Obviously there is something at Mount Oberwalz worth seeing or tending to on a regular basis, something important. We have to find out what Mr. Archipelligo is going to see, see it for ourselves, and decide how all these pieces fit back into the mysteries surrounding Desmond Archipelligo. All we’re left with is how to approach the area suitably, as it will likely be heavily guarded…” Bernardo didn’t have the chance to say anything else, as he was abruptly cut off by his front door being kicked in, splinters of wood fountaining out from the shattered doorframe. He and Ching could see four men with silenced pistols pour down the front hallway, dressed head to foot in black clothing and tactical utility harnesses, their faces covered by ski masks. The first man down the hallway screamed for them not to move, the other three fanning out to surround Ching and Bernardo as they sat around the dining room table. The guns were pointed at their faces with vicious aplomb and the men seemed quite serious about their job, better than the usual thugs that attempted to do Bernardo and Ching harm, meaning that they were probably professionals. And, if they were professionals, that probably meant that Archipelligo had sent them. Word of his burnt and soaked office would have moved quickly, so they could have been dispatched to supply retribution for that grievance, though Bernardo still wasn’t sure. The men were stoic figures and it seemed like an eternity of silence passed before Bernardo finally spoke. “How might I help you gentlemen? I have to tell you, I don’t care for religious solicitors.” The first man in black responded flatly, every word dripping with an unemotional detachment. “Mr. Walterhaus, you’ve involved yourself too deeply in the affairs of others and your neutralization has become a foregone conclusion. I apologize, as I have a certain respect for your work, but I’m sure you can understand, one professional to another, that this has to be done.” “Oh, but of course. It’s always a hazard of the job that we must meet with our fellows in this way. We are each hired hands in a world of intrigue and danger, though I must 140

admit that my work is somewhat more charitable, though I do not begrudge a man his living, but I usually wouldn’t condone doing it at the point of a knife, gun, spear gun, blow gun, machinegun, anti-aircraft missile, whaling ship, nuclear bomb, shuriken, wooden sword, refrigerator box, piano wire, trumpet stand, or industrial-grade restaurantquality coffee-making apparatus. I have certain morals and scruples which are beyond contestation.” Bernardo scanned the room with his eyes as he talked. Ching was surely waiting for a signal to leap into battle with these men, but there was always a lingering question as to whether or not he could engage them all without one of the ruffians getting off the fatal shot that would do one of them in. Bernardo trusted Ching implicitly, but the most important part of his skills was the timing in which they were deployed. So Bernardo waited to see what their attackers’ next move was before he made any hasty choices. “Well, ours is not to question, Mr. Walterhaus. And, if someone must fill these more militaristic roles, at least we are men of honor. Do you not think so?” “I’ll tell you what I think upon the outcome of our situation, my most dark-figured and amoral friend.” “I’m sorry to say that the outcome we’ve agreed to insure for our employer will not be the kind that allows for discussion afterwards. I’m also sorry that it comes down to this, but there’s not always a place for good men in this world.” “The day is not over yet, young man. You may have guns, but we have our minds and spirits. And you have no idea what can be done with a mind and spirit… Big things. Huge things… Cities can be raised or shattered; societies can rise or fall; interest rates can fluctuate; collector’s memorabilia can be reissued, destroying the inherent value of the previously manufactured item, promised collectable value based on its rarity greatly diminished. You see, all things change over time, not least of which being haircuts, clothing styles, and the acceptable size and quality of apartments.” “Goodbye, Mr. Walterhaus.” The dark man raised his gun. Bernardo was waiting for just the right moment to signal Ching and feared that it had already passed, the hour was too late, and they may have finally met their end. But luck was, as usual, on their side.

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There was a slight shuffling sound from the hallway leading to the front door and two more figures with guns rushed out, their weapons tightly drawn on the heads of the closest two masked men. By the time the masked assassins noticed these intruders, they were too close to be dispatched easily and these new participants had the jump on them. “Guns down! Walterhaus is ours!” There was something very familiar about these very casually dressed men, so different from the tactical assassins in their abject normality, their faces swollen and scarred, and it took several moments for Bernardo to realize that he was looking into the badly-beaten and puffy visages of Francois and Rudy, finally returned to exact their revenge and return him to The Lombardo Institute after the last lessthan-stellar altercation over breakfast. It was just the timing he needed, as it pitted two forces he might not have been entirely prepared to deal with against each other, though he had a hard time imagining a situation in which Francois and Rudy would be so great of a threat, but he was thankful that they served a purpose other than to provide comic relief and a mild annoyance. Guns were pointed back and forth and there were several guttural shouts to lay down arms from each side, each dutifully ignored in anticipation of one’s believed advantages over the other. Tensions mounted and all the attention in the room was drawn to the impending battle between the militaristic mercenaries and the embittered orderlies instead of the man they had all been sent to capture or kill. Bernardo gave Ching the signal.

As Ching leapt onto the kitchen table, Bernardo was already moving. In actuality, it was his leg doing all the moving, foot heading directly into the groin of the masked man closest to him, causing him to lower his aim and buckle in the middle like a folding chair. Ching dispatched the other man on the back side of the table by kicking his gun to the side and, swinging his leg back, landing a firm blow to the side of the man’s brow with his foot, the poor bastard flying over onto his ribs and hitting the floor like a bag full of bricks and dead harp seals.

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The other four men all glanced up to the spectacle on the table, still keeping their aim fixed on each other, but they barely had time to catch what happened as Ching kept moving, bounding into their midst. Ching kicked into the chest of the last of the subordinate assassins, throwing him backwards onto the table and rolling him off onto the floor with a crack of torn sinew, while, at the same time, punching Francois in the neck rather viciously. The poor man gurgled and pulled the trigger as he fell, catching the lead masked man in the shoulder with a stray bullet. The masked leader swayed and grabbed at his left shoulder with his gun hand, his weapon limply held as he paid more attention to staunching the flow of blood from the wound. Rudy fired a shot at Ching, which missed him entirely and buried itself in the kitchen wall. Ching responded by grabbing his head, one hand under the jaw and one behind the neck, and flipping him onto his back with a slap that sounded like a pound of ground beef hitting a sidewalk at fifty miles per hour, knocking the breath out of him for several minutes as he writhed on the floor in pain. The masked man was already running, Ching close behind, heading for the door and his escape. One of the others was following, already back on his feet, though he was limping along much more slowly and Bernardo had an easier time giving him chase. Bernardo watched from the street as the masked man ran for his black van, Ching keeping up but stopping half a block away, watching him from a distance. This seemed to delight and spur the masked man on, knowing that no one was behind him and the rest of his way was clear. The man managed to get into the van without trouble, though there was an old man nearby that could be distantly heard screaming at him about the placement of the van in close proximity to the apartment building. Ching didn’t accost the second man either, allowing him to pass and make it back to the van, still limping, as a small group of onlookers drew near. They joined in the old man’s shouting, making everything said thereafter unintelligible to Bernardo and Ching, who had regrouped back at the brownstone entrance, in the blur of overlapping noise. The yelling at the men in the van continued for some time as they tried to pull away from the curb but were blocked in by the press of angry bodies. Finally, led by the screaming old man, the crowd began to beat on the outside, 143

rocking the van back and forth. The two men inside seemed to scream and plead pitifully inside their glass and metal enclosure, placing their hands on the roof and windows, but it was no use and, before long, the crowd, on the verge of riot, rolled the van over, onto its side and then over onto its top, the loud crashing and crunching sound of the van’s roof destabilizing and partway collapsing being the death knell for the evening’s assassination attempt. This is why Bernardo was glad to live in Squason.

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Chapter 15 Does A Bear Shit In The Woods? Enlisting the help of the very gracious neighbors who had helped to flip the van, Bernardo and Ching removed the flopping, unconscious bodies of the other two masked men, as well as Francois and Rudy, from their home and fortified it as best they could, given that much of the doorframe was in splinters across the front hallway. Several of the people offered to watch over their door, which was too damaged to lock properly, and Bernardo gladly accepted their generosity, as he and Ching definitely had to make their next move as quickly as possible before word got back to the paymasters of the assassins that had come for them that the job had not gone as planned. The two men from the van, after being soundly beaten, had escaped on foot and would, soon enough, reach a phone, leading to reinforcements or retribution, neither of which they wanted to stay around to see, so time was now of the essence for Bernardo and Ching. They had to make their way to Mount Oberwalz as quickly as possible. Given its distance, they decided to forgo a cab and take Francois and Rudy’s vehicle, parked at the curb directly in front of their home, still running, assumedly to facilitate Bernardo’s speedy capture. The police were on their way to arrest all the unconscious thugs, now lying in the street in a pile, and it’d be several hours before the two orderlies needed their vehicle again, assuming Dr. Lombardo came to bail them out of jail at all. At the very least, they were in no position to complain to anyone.

After making sure everything was in order and leaving the neighbors to watch over their door and wait for the impending arrival of the authorities, Bernardo and Ching sped away in the large sedan. It was a twenty-four mile ride out of the city to the Mount Oberwalz ranger station. The mining site seemed to be close by, if the maps from Archipelligo’s files were to be trusted, smeared as though they were. They made one quick stop on their way out of the city to their friend Rowdy at his costume shop, Assumed

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Identities, in the East end of town, to pick up a disguise suitable for the environment they were headed to, before moving on. They were hoping to find something suitable to blend into the wilderness and sneak up on the operation that Archipelligo and Angosto were involved in without undue notice. Unfortunately, stock in the area of costumes that would blend into a wooded area was somewhat limited and Bernardo felt that Civil War soldiers, superheroes, and clowns were not in the correct frame of mind for the endeavor. What they ended up getting wasn’t exactly what they had hoped for, but it would have to do, as their options were exceptionally limited. They thanked Rowdy for his help and went about their way, not sure whether the costume was going to help them blend in or cause them to stand out even more, but Bernardo thought that it certainly couldn’t hurt and that luck had been on their side. Working their way out of the city on Highway 96, they crossed the East Oberwalz River and made their turn onto the long road South through the state park surrounding Mount Oberwalz. Given the placement of the river to the West and Turcalo Ridge running to the South of the mountain, the miniscule road was the only access to the state park and the mountain itself, except to travel up the overgrown gravel trail to what used to be the original Catheter Mine at the base of the Northeast face. Eventually the site had been abandoned after it was discovered that there was better mining to be had on the hills of the Northwest side, inside the city limits, without having to drill through the hard rock of the mountain slope to get to it. The mountain had been left to environmentalists, hikers, thrillseekers, and the local animals for nearly a century. A quarter of a mile away from the ranger station, Ching pulled the car over to the side of the small road. The two men crowded around the vehicle’s trunk, fumbling with the large mass of fabric and fur for several minutes, and, after everything appeared to be in place, locked the car doors, closed the trunk, and slunk off into the woods to begin their subterfuge.

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Ranger Dan McGillikester stood outside the ranger station shack at the foot of Mount Oberwalz in his crisp olive green uniform and sipped loudly at his coffee. Part of the beauty of the wilderness was that you could drink your coffee as loud as you liked and there was no one around to complain. There was a light breeze coming down through the trees and he held down his wide-brimmed hat with his free hand while he drank to prevent it from taking flight. It was a nice day, a little on the chilly side, but he was quite happy with it, particularly as someone who had to spend most of his time outdoors and whose job satisfaction depended much on the weather. And this was a good one. Not rainy, not too bright. Nice and calm. Very little activity around the camp to be worried about and things were as smooth as he could ask for. Just the few usual cars strolling in late, for that government scientific survey going on at the Western base, and not too much else. Those guys were pretty quiet, but he had to wonder what kind of survey they were doing. They were a rough-looking lot, most of the guys being pretty gruff and beefy. He definitely wouldn’t tangle with them. The rest, who showed up much less often, looked like Wall Street brokers. None of them looked like scientists, which surprised him, but he had learned not to ask questions. He didn’t see any drilling equipment coming in, but there were all sorts of big, old-fashioned covered military-looking supply trucks running in and out at all hours. Whatever was going on, the government must have been involved in it and he didn’t want to know about it. He was happy to just sip his coffee and enjoy the cool afternoon breeze. “Hey, Tom?” Ranger Dan stuck his head through the doorway of the command cabin to talk to his co-worker. Ranger Tom looked up from his newspaper. “What’s up? Damned kids running loose again?” Ranger Dan’s head disappeared momentarily and Ranger Tom was left to stare at the half-open wooden door. Tom was just about ready to give up, go back to reading his paper, and forget the whole thing when Dan finally returned, popping his head back in again. “Yeah… You definitely want to get a good look at this. I mean, I want confirmation. Make sure I’m not going crazy.” “Um… Okay.” Ranger Tom sat up, laid the paper across his desk and headed to the door, still standing partially open, allowing the daylight to wash into the tiny cabin.

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Bursting out into the cool afternoon, Tom’s eyes were immediately drawn to what he imagined Dan had been hoping to call his attention to. “Is that a bear?” Dan was looking through the binoculars hanging from his neck. “Looks like it to me.” Ranger Tom held out his hand and Dan, slipping the strap over his neck, passed the binoculars to Tom, so that he could get a good look at this wonder, meandering through the woods. Tom didn’t seem terribly surprised and, if he was, he was hiding it well. “I’ve never seen a white one before.” “Yeah… Me either. That’s why they usually call them ‘brown bears’, you know?” The two olive drab men stood on the porch watching for several minutes before Ranger Tom finally handed the binoculars back, Dan slipping the strap over his neck again. “What do they call them when they’re white?” Dan gave a pause that implied that a park ranger should perhaps know his bears. “Polar bears.” “So, we’ve got polar bears now, in the park?” “They live in the Arctic and shit, Tom. Not Oberwalz.” “How can you be sure they don’t?” “Because we’re about a thousand miles too far South for it. That’s why the word ‘polar’ is in their name. Because they only live at the poles. One pole, in fact.” “Maybe one escaped from the zoo…” Ranger Dan seemed to consider it briefly, looking through the binoculars. “Well, that would be a possibility, but you have to assume that it somehow managed to sneak out of the city through miles of buildings and people without being noticed, crossed the bridge over the East Oberwalz River either via a highway or by swimming, and then walked through the woods up to the mountain. That’s a long walk… And it walks funny enough already.” Ranger Tom nodded. “It walks like there’s a stick in its ass.” “Yeah, but what I’m saying is that it’s not very likely that it got all the way over here from the zoo. Which is downtown. People generally notice when animals go missing or see large white bears walking down the street.” “You think?” Ranger Dan looked into Tom’s face, long and hard, for a good amount of time, trying to glean exactly how serious

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he was with that question, before finally giving up and answering it as if Tom were completely genuine. “Well, yes, Tom… People are often dumb as bricks, but I somehow doubt that they managed to miss a large white bear walking around the middle of downtown or on the highway.” “You never know.” Ranger Dan and Ranger Tom watched the animal in the distance work its way up the mountainside, each silent until the bear was gone from sight. “Yeah… I’m pretty sure I do know.” “So, should we report this?” Ranger Dan took off his hat and scratched his head. “To who? And would they even believe us?” Ranger Tom half-frowned and nodded, before heading back through the open door. “Okay. Well, I’m going back to my paper.”

“So far, so good.” Bernardo was somewhat pleased with the costume that they had rented. It hadn’t seemed to draw too much undue attention to them. The park rangers had seemed impassive as to the appearance of a polar bear in the Oberwalz wilderness, which could be seen as a good sign, though you could never tell with park rangers, as they’re a strange lot. Bernardo had held high hopes that a brown or black bear costume would be found, but it was not to be and the only animal reasonably similar to something found in the wilds of the forest was the polar bear, though it obviously had no place anywhere near Mount Oberwalz. It was a risk that had to be taken. Given time, it could have been modified to a more appropriate bear color, but time was something they seemed to be desperately short on. So they trudged up the mountain in the terribly out-ofplace costume, Bernardo leading in the front half, Ching in the back half, the tall Asian even more hunched than Bernardo in the confines of the suit’s rear. The polar bear simulacrum moved uneasily uphill, its legs not really working together in unison and the back half being significantly taller than the front. Next time, something better would have to be found, as this was far from acceptable. Preferably, something that didn’t require

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two people in a suit and that didn’t require them to go into the wilds of Oberwalz. It was slow going across the wilderness, skirting around hiking trails and heading down toward the small chain link fence hastily constructed to mark off the area designated for the “scientific research” supposedly taking place at the behest of Desmond Archipelligo and his friends. This was the point where Bernardo was forced to stop and reconsider their point of entry, the bear appearing to thoughtfully take in its surroundings and emit words to itself with nary a movement from its jaws. “Well, the gate is definitely going to be a problem, Ching. I don’t think the men I see milling around, guarding the area, are going to be particularly fond of a strange polar bear being allowed to wander into their camp to look around, unannounced. It would seem suspect to me, were I in their shoes and it was my duty to watch out for prying eyes and drastically displaced woodland creatures.” There was a muffled agreement from the rear of the bear. “Well, up the hillside we go, I suppose. We must look and see if there is a way to make our way around to the mountain entrance, where they’re supposedly doing all this digging. Let’s hope we can get around the fence without being noticed.” The “bear” began its uneasy ascent, stumbling up the steep and uneven ground of the wooded hill, paws slipping in the leaves and pine straw lying in thick, rotting layers on the forest floor. Their progress was very rough, moving through the saplings, slippery ground, and patches of loose rock, sliding away or stabbing into their feet. Despite the physical hardships and instability, it was still exceptionally surprising for them when, with a loud thud and the crumble of falling stones and collapsing earth, the bear fell and disappeared into a black and gaping hole in the ground.

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Chapter 16 Journey To The Center Of The Mountain They were surrounded by darkness, a small shaft of light shining down on them from above, obviously the opening left behind from where they’d fallen through the thin surface. It was like they were at the bottom of a well or had fallen into Frenchie the Skiff’s belly button. It took several minutes for the two men to gather themselves. There they sat, in their respective halves of a bisected polar bear, wondering exactly what had hit them and why they were sprawled out on dirt and stone. Bernardo had to pull the bear head off to see properly in the surrounding darkness. Finally, reaching something close to their senses, they began to look around and realized that, in the collapse of the roof, they’d fallen into this sort of cavern. The fall was only around twelve feet straight down onto minimal rocks and debris, but they were stuck in the hole without a light and without the ability to call for help, as anyone that found them would be the same sort they’d been trying to avoid in the first place. “Well, Ching… I hadn’t thought we’d need a flashlight. That will teach me to come unprepared for any contingency, especially in the mountains. Next time I’ll bring a flashlight, water, a slingshot, nylons, and a papier-mâché head, just to be sure… Rather a rough situation we’ve gotten into, though at least we’re not hurt. We can at least be thankful for that.” Bernardo collected himself, stood up, and moved out into the darkness, carrying the bear head along with him under his arm, feeling his way along with his free hand until his eyes started to adjust to the dim light. “Ching, come look at these walls…” Bernardo ran his hand up and down the smooth stone of the cave sides. “This isn’t natural… This was carved by someone, though it looks rather old and primitive, definitely not done by a modern machine.” Ching grunted, suspiciously glancing around, as if he suspected the darkness would come alive and attack at any moment. Up to that point, such a thing had never happened to Bernardo and Ching, but Ching had never been one to take chances with his or his master’s life. Bernardo worked his way down the wall, the cave growing thinner and the ceiling creeping lower until it was a 151

five foot high passage of stone, three to four feet wide at the most, smoothly carved along the sides. The floors were sand-covered stone, fairly clear of debris, and, from what very little he could see, shockingly flat. It was a strange and marvelous place, but definitely not where they wanted to be lost at the moment, particularly in the darkness. Their movement was slow, hunched over in a squat and trying not to strike their heads on the low ceilings any more than necessary, and it became harder to see as they moved into the depths of the tunnel, relying more on touch than on any other sense. Bernardo cursed the tribe of pygmies or children that had carved the low tunnels. He couldn’t tell how far they’d actually gone by the time they finally reached the first junction, the meeting of four smooth tunnel arms at a single point. Bernardo whispered back to his associate. “Ching… If these tiny tunnels are indeed man-made, we may have been lucky enough to fall into the back door of Archipelligo’s secret meeting place! Now, if we could only find a light of some sort, we might make our way around to the spot quietly. Otherwise we could end up heading down the same tunnel again and again, circling until we die…” Bernardo felt something cold and sharp prod him in the lower back. A small, nasal voice rang out of the darkness. “Keep quiet and don’t make a move or you die.” There was a moment of tense silence. Ching couldn’t do anything, not being able to see the assailant or know that he had a weapon at Bernardo’s spine. Or, for that matter, judge his size, see who he was, tell what kind of hat he was wearing, or check out the gleam of his teeth, though those aspects were not considered quite as vital under the circumstances. Bernardo, for his part, just held his hands in front of him and waited for the next move, unsure as to what or whom he was dealing with this time, what was prodding into his lower back, and whether or not he was going to be led off to be captured or murdered in the dark recesses of Mount Oberwalz, not exactly in line with what Bernardo had planned for his golden years. Then the darkness dropped quickly away, Bernardo’s shadow lunging up in front of him, a giant stretching across the intersection and down the passageway ahead, which he could now see was likely carved right out of the stone with some sort of hand tools. 152

“Turn around.” The high voice attempted gruffness in its order to Bernardo. Bernardo squeezed his body around as best as he could in the tight confines of the low passage and found himself looking into the pointed, though somewhat deflated and dirty, hat of a tiny man. He attempted to look down into the little person’s face instead, but a metal carving tool was pressed firmly under his chin and he couldn’t get a good look at the tiny man wearing the cap that was currently threatening to murder him. “Perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m not sure…” “Rocks and stones! What in the devil are you two? Some sort of bear-men?” Bernardo had forgotten about the costume. He was finally able to lean his head down enough to get a good look at the tiny man with the chisel in his hand, who stood gapemouthed, staring back and forth from Bernardo’s wooly bear legs, upper body, a flap of midsection hanging down against his ass, and extra head held under his arm over to Ching’s huge furry legs and tail-end, coming up to his chest. The little fellow, who was no more than three and a half feet tall, was dressed in torn rags, all dirty with the dust and grime of the tunnels. His cap must have been rather colorful at some point but it was now darkened with a sooty layer of tunnel dirt and looked somewhat sat-upon. Bernardo wasn’t sure if his beard and hair were brown or just dirt-stained. He imagined it may have been the latter, as their polar bear costume was looking rather rough as well and they had only been in the tunnels a matter of minutes. He could also finally see the source of the bright light, a tiny golden lantern dangling from the little man’s other fist, only as large as Bernardo’s palm, with one tiny door on the side open, washing the corridor with a rectangular panel of light. “What sort of thing are you? A dirt leprechaun, perhaps?” The little man sneered and shook his chisel at Bernardo. “Oh, that’s good talk! Dirt leprechaun! For that, I ought to…” He was unable to complete his thought, as Ching, seeing an opening, as he always did, had grabbed the little person’s chisel-wielding arm and thrown him bodily to the tunnel floor. This was quite a feat, considering Ching was severely cramped by the tiny halls. The dwarf’s chisel flew from his hand and the lantern skipped to one side of the 153

passage, pointing toward them, and casting their silhouettes across onto the other side of the stone hallway. The tiny person moaned in pain. “Oh, me back! What have you evil, half-breed bear bastards done now?” Ching squatted down to his knees, holding the little man in place, though he seemed to be in no hurry to get away. Bernardo plopped down next to him and leaned in close to question the man or, at very least, get a better look at him. After the tiny person was done thrashing and moaning, Bernardo finally spoke. “So, might we talk now?” His eyes opened wide again and he halfway sat up to angrily reply. “You bloody well threw out my back, furry monster!” “We aren’t bear-men.” “Tell that to your lying mother, you white mutant bastards!” “We were dressed as a bear to subterfuge our movements, confuse our enemies, and slip silently into their territory to spy on their every move and action.” The wee man leaned on an elbow while laughing dismissively at Bernardo. “You were doing a fine job, falling into tunnels and making enough noise that I heard you a mile away. You must be a crackerjack spy, lad! You must be the talk of the espionage community!” “Well, I’ll take that criticism in stride. I’m sure I have much to learn from an ambushing dwarf with a woodworking tool.” “It’s a stone chisel, you big, dumb asshole! Do you see any trees growing in this cave? Have you spied a single stick since falling through the bloody rock, dunderhead? And I’m a gnome, not some goddamned dwarf! How many times do we have to tell you people? I mean, do I look like I’m afflicted with a blasted physical ailment? I’m not some sort of circus freak… I’m a gnome!”” “Are there many of you little people?” The little man looked genuinely confused by Bernardo’s question. “Don’t you… Who the hell are you?” “I, my little friend, am Bernardo Walterhaus, world’s greatest detective, keen thinker, finder of things and people, and occasional polar-bear-imitator, currently on the case of a missing girl, a suspicious father, and a meeting with a mysterious and frightening figure in, what I believe, is this very system of tunnels and caves!” 154

“Are you bloody sure you know who you are?” Bernardo offered his hand to the little fellow, who thought for a moment before taking it. Ching leaned back, allowing the little man to sit upright and, with Bernardo’s help, get back onto his feet. He finally shook Bernardo’s hand grudgingly. “I am Fwooter Peeterquooter, king of the gnomes, former ruler of this tunnel kingdom, now living like a rat in hiding from the humans who have enslaved my people. Sorry, lad… I thought you were one of them.” “Oh…” Bernardo smiled. “Well, that explains everything.”

Fwooter led them, hunched, with his incredibly bright gnome lantern through the tunnels, a maze of interlocking and identical passages that they never would have managed their way through alone. “My people were a peaceful race, living in mountains throughout these lands for generations, hidden away from the struggles and strife of mankind, entirely content to live beneath the earth, build our quaint and shockingly efficient gnomish devices, and steal cable television. But we were found by brutal types who quickly overran our earthen strongholds and captured our wealth… My people were forced into servitude to these men and made to deliver the kingdom’s wealth to their masters. I have hidden, barely surviving, in the hopes that I could lead my people to freedom, just like King Lunk Bidooerit in the Fourth Age.” Bernardo tried to respond while squeezing down the miniscule tunnel. “I find this all very intriguing, but what can you tell me of the men who committed these crimes against your people?” Fwooter stopped and looked at Bernardo, hunched over behind him. “At first, they were normal men, like you, coming across us on accident… The usual type of thing: men digging holes and finding gnomes where they thought they would find rocks. Then, after other men got word that we were here and our mines were rich with the gold they sought, the criminals, thieves, and businessmen descended on our homes. The gold was always the first thing they thirsted for. And, when the precious metals and gems run

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out, I fear my people are doomed and your wretched human brethren will murder us all.” Bernardo sighed. “Can you show us to where these men are?”

Fwooter closed the door on the gnome lantern as they crept to the mouth of a high entrance, looking down over the expanse of an open cavern, distant sunlight pouring through a small passage to the outside, large men carrying wooden boxes filled with stone out of the tunnel system to the mountain’s exterior. In their midst, mercenaries and thugs oversaw dozens of dirty and haggard little men and women like Fwooter, toting chunks of glittering rock into the room and loading them into the boxes. Near the overseers, a group of men watched over the site with an amused interest, discussing the processes that kept the operation running smoothly. Of the two elegantly dressed men, one of them was easily recognizable to Bernardo. “Desmond Archipelligo.” Bernardo looked at Ching who nodded. “It seems that we’ve found his meeting place after all… This means that the other gentleman must be the mysterious Ringlon Angosto, who, I surmise, must be overseeing this endeavor of slavery and theft. Archipelligo is obviously busy lining his pockets with gnome blood-money, like a modern day Cortez bilking and destroying the indigenous moppets. I do not feel Archipelligo is the mastermind of this affair, though, good Ching… One does not teach a snake to break-dance nor to steal from the miniscule folk of legend. I would go so far as to make the guess that Archipelligo is somehow laundering or channeling this money, in the form of precious metals, through his business and professional contacts, keeping a piece of the brutal Mr. Angosto’s profits for his trouble.” The three slunk back into the darkness of the tunnel and huddled close together. “This is no longer a simple kidnapping. We have the life and livelihood of hundreds of little people to think about.” “You can call us ‘gnomes’, all right? We’re not bloody dwarves. There’s no political correctness to being a gnome…”

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Bernardo ignored Fwooter and continued. “Angosto and Archipelligo must pay for the pain they’ve inflicted, Ching! It’s in our hands now to make sure that this is stopped and many lives are saved. Louissa Archipelligo will have to wait.” “Yes, Mistah Watahaus. Weh muss safe theem.”

Soon enough, Archipelligo and Angosto were gone from the caves, leaving their minions to keep the gnomes toiling away, bringing in the loads of gold-streaked ore. “It started out as all our gold jewelry, coins, bars, and some of our technology. Our precious stones as well. Then they bloody well made us start digging it straight out of the rock.” “What keeps them there? What hold do they have over your people, other than their guns?” Fwooter pointed ahead, back into the light, and the three quietly crawled on their bellies out of the darkened tunnel to the precipice overlooking the cavern floor below. Directly beneath them, Bernardo could now see a large set of cages that had been out of his line of sight when watching Archipelligo and Angosto before. The captive inhabitants were clear to him: the youngest of the gnomes, babies, children, and even the infirm or those unable to carry on working. At least three dozen of these poor souls huddled there, weeping and waiting for some end to it all. Bernardo finally understood the hold the humans had on their gnome slaves. Fwooter leaned close to Bernardo’s ear and whispered, so the guards wouldn’t hear him. “If they don’t work, the children will be killed. If anyone tries to escape, one of this number will perish… We are a close people, Bernardo Walterhaus. We would never let one of our own, especially their children, suffer for our actions or for our weakness.” “Well, let’s make sure that none have to die, my good man… Show us the way around to the mines.”

Fwooter led Bernardo and Ching back through the twisted system of caves, avoiding detection and coming

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across no one on the circling route around the regular path the guards and other gnomes were known to take. Bernardo was intrigued as to how there could be so many miles of tiny tunnels inside the mountain, like a termite mound, right in their midst without humanity ever even knowing it was there. Though Bernardo was never that shocked to know how little man knew about anyone or anything other than itself and that is why men such as Bernardo were in demand. For those who paid attention to the world around them, there was no lack of promise, toil, and surprises. After what seemed like hours of walking in cramped silence, Fwooter finally led them out of the darkness into a junction between several different main tunnel branches. The most surprising thing was that this particularly large and well-lit tunnel that they had emerged into, formed from the combination of all the other tunnels that intersected here, was much wider than any they had seen up to that point and had some sort of metal beams running across the floor, like a large steel ring, its end out of view down the tunnel. As a rumbling noise rose from the distance, Bernardo realized this was some sort of track and a tiny brass cart rocketed up, stopping just long enough for four tired and dirty gnomes to open its door, climb off, carrying their rocks, and start to make their way back to the surface. Then the cart rocketed away again, around the curved track, and back down the tunnel. Seconds later, the process repeated itself with a new cart. Fwooter looked back at the men, huddled around the tunnel exit, as he closed his lantern. “Let’s grab a ride down, lads!” Bernardo and Ching didn’t know quite what to think, each shooting the other a worried glance as they stepped out into the light, finally able to stand fully upright in the high tunnel, where they were quickly met by one of the rocketing carts arriving at full speed. The next four gnomes, all male, stepped out of the transport and, after a dazed and exhausted moment, they looked up and realized that there were men in their midst, halfway dressed as polar bears for that matter, as well as the other tattered gnome at their front. Their mouths fell open in shock and, one by one, they fell to one knee, not an easy feat wearing the leg shackles that bound all of them at the ankles by a short lead of chain, and dropped their gold-laced rocks to the ground. 158

“Sire! I barely recognized you! What are you doing here?” Fwooter spoke to the first of the four. “Mypoutterit, my boy! These men are here from the surface world to help us! Continue to move the stones and pretend you never saw me… By the next round you make it back, we’ll have a plan. Tell no one of this, understand? Things must continue as normal until we three make it to town and do our business. Act normal, for the love of Bin-Quaret!” The four gnomes nodded, barely able to speak to their king, picked up their rocks and left in a hurry. Fwooter jumped through the small hinged door into the cart, Bernardo and Ching following quickly behind and squeezing themselves into the gnome apparatus. “Hang on now, boys. This might be a bit of a shock for you…” As soon as the small door was closed, the cart was away like a bolt, passing through the tunnels at an incredible rate of speed, twisting, turning, and shooting ever further downward, occasionally passing by a cart streaking in the opposite direction. It was like the worst roller coaster ride Bernardo could have imagined, though taken at quadruple speed. “Be ready!” Fwooter had to yell to be heard over the rush of air and the screech of the tiny device being held onto the single track by one small arm, somehow supporting all that weight. “There could be guards at the end!” As usual, Fwooter was right.

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Chapter 17 Trouble Comes To TinyTown When the cart came to a halt, the guard didn’t really expect trouble and, as such, wasn’t even paying attention. His days were mainly spent watching over a stream of tiny tired bodies, getting in and out of carts all day long, carrying this or that rock, and going back to the top as often as possible. He was no taskmaster and, as long as things kept flowing, he had no problem and wasn’t going to make any trouble. So he mainly just leaned up against the cave wall, machinegun hanging on a strap over his shoulder and sunglasses on (not because they were needed but because it looked cool), and watched the day fly by while he was collecting a paycheck for doing very little. He was so jaded with this particular job that he didn’t even really notice the full-sized people lope out of the cart until it was far too late. It finally occurred to him, right as the Asian man with the bear legs leading the pack sprinted into him, struck him in the head, grabbed his gun, and used the strap wrapped over his neck and shoulder to throw him onto the hard ground, knocking the air out of him, that something wasn’t quite right about these people. Another half-bear, this one a smaller Caucasian with goggles strapped across his forehead, leaned over his prostrate body. “Sorry about that, young man. We have a few things we need from you.”

The first thing Bernardo had noticed climbing off the cart was the slow-moving line of gnomes carrying rocks to the surface stretching back for some way in the opposite direction. But, after that, it was the expanse that the larger (but still small in the scheme of things) transport tunnel had suddenly opened into, a huge cavern filled with gnome buildings, homes, technology, and things Bernardo never could have imagined or really identified. But he didn’t have much time to think about all that, as Ching apprehended the guard overseeing the transport, who really wasn’t paying attention, though Bernardo could commend the man’s dedication to his look, wearing sunglasses indoors. In difference, though, Bernardo liked to

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think that the goggles helped cut out stimuli and allowed him to better use his sense of internal detection to guide him in his work. But with it as dark as the inside of a tarcoated bishop’s hat during an eclipse on the far side of the moon with the lights out inside the caves, he didn’t bother to actually have them over his eyes, as he still liked to have a clue where he was going and what was happening around him. The tint wasn’t too tremendously dark, but he was in a cave, not vacation in the Bahamas. And, perhaps, if the stupid bastard had his sunglasses off, then maybe he would have seen trouble coming. There was a lesson to be learned there. So, Bernardo was left standing over the poor man, who stared up at him, dazed, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Bernardo apologized to him as he patted him down for a set of keys, which the man didn’t seem to have in his possession. “Well, friend… Seeing as you don’t have any keys on you, I imagine you’ll have to direct us to the kind person who’ll surely be willing to free all these fine little men and women of the gnome community.” The guard fumbled, rolling back and forth on his back, looking for his rifle, which Ching was still holding, squatting close behind the man’s head, the strap still wrapped around its rightful owner’s neck. To make sure he was noticed, Ching gave the strap a good hard tug and momentarily throttled the man. Bernardo waved his finger back and forth disapprovingly. “Yes, please… None of those attempts to shoot us or escape. That would be bad form, particularly for one already in the habit of enslaving miniature peoples. I have to say, you’re off to a stunningly bad start.” The guard wheezed and lay on his back. Bernardo pulled the sunglasses off the guard’s face and threw them over his shoulder, leaning in close enough so that his face filled the man’s vision and he was forced to look directly into Bernardo’s eyes. “I absolutely abhor being involved with the commission of violence. I often allow those around me to employ it as a matter of necessity and I do not diminish the morals or integrity of others for their reliance on it, as long as it doesn’t border or sadism and is in the general good. But this is a rather dire situation you’re in, my little friend, working as a gnome slaver. Shy of lawyers, politicians, and fatsubstitute food additive manufacturers, slave masters are 161

one of the least-appreciated professions amongst the populace at large. Did you know that? I can’t really blame them. You’re an unlikable bunch, chaining up gnomes, stealing their gold, and killing them. Not exactly sportsmanlike behavior, by any standard I can think of off the top of my head. As such, I’d have no problem letting my man Ching here rip off your ears, break your fingers and your arms in six places, dislocate sockets, snap your nose in twain, and pull out a few teeth if it assures me that you tell us exactly what I want to know… Now, what’s say you tell us how we can get these gnomes un-manacled and where your mercenary brethren are at presently?” The guard cleared his throat. “Um… The sergeant is deeper down, in the mining cavern. He’s got the manacle keys. They unlock all the gnomes’ chains.” “Do you use radios to communicate?” “Um… No… Too much interference with all this rock and the metal deposits in the mountain.” Bernardo smiled. “Thank you for making the process somewhat easier with your polite demeanor and courteous attitude in providing us with the appropriate details. It definitely offsets my ire at your placement of an entire race into forced servitude. Casts you into a somewhat better light to be such a mensch.” The guard nodded from the stone floor. “No problem.” Bernardo stood up and looked at Ching, still hunched over the guard, making sure he didn’t make a move to so much as scratch his nose. “Well, Ching… Looks like we’ll have to search a little farther abroad to find the solution to our ‘enslaved gnome’ problem. We should prepare ourselves to commence on a journey to find this sergeant of which our young mercenary spoke.” Ching rolled the guard over and pulled a set of handcuffs off the back of his belt, forgoing the usual, more logical handcuffing technique, instead cuffing the guard’s right hand across his back to his left ankle. Fwooter, who had been standing with his people, all watching in awe as the guard was punished and questioned, turned to his people. “Gnomes! Surface men have come to help us fight! No longer will you carry any more stones to the surface! As your king, it’s my recommendation that you wait here and we shall return to unlock your bonds! Give us about ten minutes… Okay?” There was a muttering from the long line of gnomes, heading all the way back to the exit at the far end of the 162

cavern. Finally, one gnome spoke up. “Um… Okay. Sounds good, your majesty.” “Okay, then. Ten minutes… I mean, don’t time us on that or anything. It’s just a rough estimate. We’ve just got to go defeat the guards, grab the keys, and we’ll be back quick as you can imagine. Quicker, maybe. Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got it all under control… And have any other gnomes coming back from the surface wait here as well. Right?” There was a long silence until another gnome finally responded. “Okay, sire.” Most of the gnomes started dropping their rocks and having a seat on the ground to wait for the return of their supposed liberators, perfectly happy to have a break from carrying rocks all day. Fwooter kicked the guard in the head as he walked by, yelling back to no one in particular. “And if this asshole tries to get away, crack him in the skull with a rock!”

Bernardo and Ching finally took off their portions of the bear costume and left them with the trussed up guard and the waiting gnomes, allowing them to look a bit more normal in their street clothes. This also made it significantly easier for them to maintain a good level of stealth while sneaking through the tunnels, better lit here than at the exterior of the mountain, though not having much more head clearance. Bernardo remarked on the difference as they made their way down the first passages out of the large cavern. “It’s much brighter down here, much more than I would have expected.” Fwooter explained it as they traveled along through the winding arterial tunnel, delving even deeper underground. “You see, there’s no damned reason to have a bunch of lights up near the surface. We don’t live there. We live down here… It’d be like putting lights in a garbage dump. Who cares about the bloody surface? Plus, we’ve got lanterns if we ever need to go up there… Mind if I take that gun?” Ching, who had slung the machinegun over his shoulder for safekeeping, looked at Bernardo, somewhat nonplussed by the request.

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Bernardo looked down at the little man, one eyebrow arched in curiosity. “Do you even know how to operate our weaponry?” Fwooter frowned. “Do I look like some kind of idiot? I mean, at very least, we get cable, like I said. You can’t turn it on without getting a damned Western or action movie or some of that bloody wretched Schwarzenegger crap they’re always showing. I’d think everyone on or under the Earth would know very well by now how to operate a bloody machinegun. Aside from that, I’m a gnome… I can figure out any kind of damned machine. That’s what we do.” Bernardo smiled and shrugged at Ching. “Well, I don’t see why not…” Ching handed over the gun, glad to be rid of it when he had a hard enough time not hitting his head on the stone ceiling without a rifle being thrown over his back. It seemed gigantic when carried by Fwooter, but he seemed to have no problem toting it and waved it around like a child with a toy, ready to play soldier. “I was mentioning the lighting because it seems like, if we were able to cut the lights in the next area, we might be able to create an advantage for ourselves. I would assume that they have superior numbers…” Fwooter stopped posing with the gun and thought seriously about the idea. “Well, lad, you’re probably right. There’ll definitely be several guards in there, but I can’t tell you for sure how many. But maybe I could cut the power. Don’t see why not… It definitely wouldn’t hurt for us to not get shot on sight, I’d say.”

Fwooter took them down several more branching passages to a ragged hole in the side of the tunnel, sending every gnome they passed back with the message to wait for their return in the central cavern. They forged on through the rough rent in the smooth wall and into a much more hurriedly-constructed passage, carved quickly through the depths beneath Mount Oberwalz to get to the lusted-after gold deposits with all possible haste and as little art as possible. Fwooter led, stepping carefully on the uneven and loose stone floor, trying to avoid tripping in the dim light. “There’s a few of these around, where they’ve had my people tear

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right through the walls, as quick as you can think, to the nearest vein of metal we can find. We’d normally be ashamed to make tunnels like this, you see, but they work us like moles and care more about speed than quality. Then, when the gold seems to bleed out, they have us move to the next… This is the latest tunnel and, ahead, will be the cavern, dug out with gnome hands and carried to the surface.” Fwooter pointed out the few small lights, quickly strung high along the tunnel, and the cable that connected them all. “This cable runs the power to all the lights down this tunnel and, as such, the cavern at the end. If we pull one of the lights out, the rest after it will go out. I’ve got my lantern, so I should be able to put the bulb back in afterwards and restore the light, but you’ll have to work quickly and in the dark.” Bernardo nodded. “Well, then, let’s move up, get a peek, and then cut it off.” They moved on, as quietly as they could, up the tunnel until it curved and opened up into a large cavity in the rock, gnomes spread out along the walls, climbing as high as they could up the sides, carving chunks of rock out of the walls with chisels and picks, and sorting and throwing the rocks into bins below to be carried up to the surface. Fortunately, none of the gnomes had attempted to pass them, heading back to the outside world, since they had entered the branch, so it seemed clear that they had to move quickly before they ended up surprising any gnomes or drawing attention to themselves in some other equally unpleasant way. In the midst of the ring of working gnomes stood four guards with rifles held at the ready and their leader, which Bernardo assumed was the Sergeant, armed with a pistol and a large key ring, which he twirled as he yelled, insisting that the tired gnomes work harder, which seemed awfully tacky to Bernardo to flaunt the keys and his power in such an obvious and annoying way. “Are you sure you can get them all, Ching, even in the dark?” Ching studied the group of men standing in the center of the room and nodded. Bernardo trusted Ching and his abilities implicitly. He knew that if anyone could pull off the feat, it would be Ching Dic-Tofon. Bernardo turned to Fwooter and nodded to signal his readiness.

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Fwooter pried out the closest bulb with his chisel and, as things went black, the last image Bernardo saw was Ching springing forward toward the guards.

There was the muffled drumming of feet on stone moving across the blackness of the cavern, followed by slaps that sounded like a tenderizing hammer striking meat, a few spurts of gunfire, shocked cries and screams, and crashes of bodies and stone hitting the cavern floor, all of it ringing in Bernardo and Fwooter’s ears for what seemed like an eternity, though it was barely seconds from when the bulb was removed. There were a few moments of eerie silence and several more staggered slaps and thuds, only punctuated by the gasps and cries of frightened gnomes. Finally, there was a whistle in the darkness. “Fwooter… The lights…” Fwooter threw open the lantern and, with Bernardo’s help, forced the bulb back into its copper setting, allowing the electricity to again flow through the whole string of lights. Bernardo looked back into the gaping expanse and was able to see that all the gnomes had stopped working and turned, tools limp in their hands, to stare at the black-clad Asian man standing amidst a pile of limp and weakly struggling bodies. Three of the men were slack and either unconscious or dead, one rolled back and forth moaning and cradling his ribs with a cry that implied he would need medical attention in the near future, and Ching’s foot rested on the throat of the Sergeant, vainly struggling to get away from his throat being crushed, which could easily happen if Ching so desired. The Sergeant fumbled to draw his pistol from the holster at his thigh and Ching removed his foot from the man’s throat only long enough to give a vicious kick to the man’s wrist, the foot resting on the throat again before the Sergeant even had time to move or get a good breath into his lungs. “I wouldn’t struggle too much if I were you, Sergeant. Ching wouldn’t appreciate that and might be more likely to do you harm, quite unintentionally I’m sure. And I’m fairly certain you don’t want to be harmed… Unless you’re the

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type that’s pledged suicide before the dishonor of defeat. If so, Ching will be only too glad to help you in that regard. He is nothing if not considerate to the needs of others.” Ching smiled at the prone man, who tried to wriggle out from under his foot. Ching ceased the man’s struggles with a kick to the skull. Bernardo leaned down and, tossing away the Sergeant’s handgun, pulled the ring of keys from where they had fallen next to his body. “Thank you. These will be quite helpful.”

After the gnomes in the cave were freed, their leg manacles were used to restrain all the guards, wrist to ankle as before, whether they were struggling, conscious, or otherwise. It was obvious that they wouldn’t be of much use for a while, even if they did try to squirm their way for help, so they could be safely left behind without fear of being seen again. Fwooter, gathering his people together and passing out the few guns liberated from the guards, roused their spirits and explained the current situation. “The day has come that we will be free again, lads!” The two dozen freshly-saved gnomes cheered Fwooter, Bernardo, and Ching as heartily as possible, given how hard they’d been worked, glad to finally be out of their chains and done with gold-mining. “We’ve got to move before they come down to find out what’s going on and why the supply has stopped…” Fwooter excitedly agreed with Bernardo. “Yes, we must hurry, men! Back to the surface before they take our awaiting brothers!” Led along by the sure-footed gnomes, Bernardo and Ching made their way back through the passages much more quickly and much less quietly than before, finding themselves back in the large cavern containing the gnome settlement and the awaiting prisoners in only a matter of minutes. Key ring in hand, Bernardo rushed down the line of gnomes, unlocking the chains as quickly as possible, the happy gnomes shouting and waving the chains they were now freed from over their heads in celebration and defiance.

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After several minutes of desperate rushing to get all the gnomes’ leg manacles unlocked, Bernardo quickly snapped another chain onto the guard, still lying on his side next to the mine cart apparatus, staring unhappily at the wall. “Sorry we took so long, my good man. Very little trouble from the Sergeant, but he does send his greetings. The lot of you will be taken care of soon enough when our friends in the Oberwalz Police Department haul you away to your next career in the penitentiary…” The guard spat at Bernardo or, really, spat toward the wall, as he couldn’t really point his face up at Bernardo to spit at him properly, making the gesture somewhat more empty and juvenile. Bernardo sighed and shook his head at the young man, walking away. “That is a shame. Terrible attitude, even for a criminal. Shows a lack of maturity. You should definitely learn to accept defeat more gracefully.” “Well, now what?” Fwooter stood at the head of nearly a hundred gnomes, the five armed with guns flanking him like a royal honor guard. Bernardo looked at the motley lot of little people carrying stone tools, chains, and any piece of pointed metal they could find lying within easy reach around their settlement. “Well, we’ll definitely have to consider an option that allows for either the element of surprise or a rather good distraction. Or perhaps both. I’m never one to skimp on a plan. And I’m sure we’ll require some of that gnomish technological ingenuity of yours, if you have any suggestions on how we can best plan our impending counterattack. Perhaps we should look over anything you have left lying around that would be of offensive use…”

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Chapter 18 The Dreaded Ghostly Cave Polar Bear The two guards stood at the top of the mine cart system, staring at the tracks as the cars would shoot up the incline, shrieking metal rubbing against the rail, and stop abruptly in the spot just in front of them, ready to load or unload passengers. The carts would wait around fifteen seconds for the door to be opened before they would zoom back down the slope, soon to be followed by another cart, repeating endlessly. It was their understanding that the same process took place at some point deep below, the other end of this circuit, where the carts would load or unload in the same fashion. And, yet, nothing had come up or gone down in some time, a fact that dismayed these two men. Sensing something had gone wrong, they had been dispatched, hunched and irritable, though the system of tunnels to discover the source of the problem, whatever it was that had stopped the flow of gold-toting gnomes heading back to the surface to deposit their goods and return to mining. And so there they stood, staring at the cart system working perfectly before them, though seeming frighteningly un-sturdy, and they then realized that, whatever the problem was, it would be found far below the earth and that, somehow, they had to investigate at the other end of the contraption. The slimmer of the two men examined the current cart, waiting patiently for passengers, in front of him. “Why don’t you just take it down and check on what’s going on?” His tall, bulky partner took a step back at the suggestion, distressed by the mere mention of him riding the thing. “Why me?” “Why not you?” “Well, why not you?” “Because I suggested you go…” The cart sped on, only to be replaced a few moments later by another, but their coming and going didn’t seem to interrupt the argument. “Well, it seats four, why wouldn’t you suggest that we both go, then?” “Well… Maybe one of us needs to wait here for word from up top. They might send down some important information for us. And what if there was someone waiting 169

down there for us, ready to attack? Someone would have to send word back for reinforcements, so we can’t both get caught down there.” “Why should I go down there, then?” “Because you’re bigger and you can hold your own.” “Oh, great. I’m bigger, so you get to pussy out and stand here, waiting to tell them that I got caught and maybe killed?” “If you weren’t to come back after a few minutes, I’d send for reinforcements and we’d all come down to save you.” “If I was still alive to save…” “Stop being a baby and just go down there.” The large man pointed at the current car awaiting a rider. “These things don’t look safe to me.” “Safe enough to carry about a billion gnomes around, but not you, I guess.” “I’m a lot bigger than a fucking gnome… That thing might come right off the track.” “You’re big, but you’re not King Fatso.” “Well, King Fatso couldn’t fit his fictional ass in this little cart. But, if he could, this thing would probably snap right off the rail.” “I don’t know… Those gnomes make some tough little gadgets.” “Yeah, well, if they’re so smart, then why are they mining gold for two dozen guys with guns?” “Well, I think they were kind of caught by surprise…” “Why don’t they build a magic gnome death ray or a rocket to carry them to freedom, then? Huh?” “Now you’re just being an asshole… I made a completely valid point and you…” The thinner guard didn’t have time to finish his thought, as yet another cart had pulled up, though this one happened to be carrying a dirty white man in goggles, a dirty Asian man dressed like somebody’s chauffeur, and two halves of a dirty polar bear. Before either man had really noticed or had the time to react, the two had been kicked, punched and pummeled to the ground by the Asian man, who had vaulted right over the top of the cart, feet scraping along the ceiling in flight, and onto the two of them like a rabid badger.

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Bernardo climbed out of the cart, taking his time to open the door after Ching jumped over the side. He dragged the polar bear costume along with him and set it aside while Ching thoroughly subdued the guards. Closing the little door and sending the cart screeching away, the next car was allowed to arrive, filled with gnomes. As little people burst from the cart, Bernardo walked over to the two dazed and bruised guards lying up against the tunnel wall. “Hello, there… I’m Bernardo Walterhaus, the world’s greatest detective, and I’m currently leading a gnome uprising. Perhaps you could answer some questions for me…” The thinner guard weakly coughed and turned to his companion. “See? I could have gone for help…”

In the exterior chamber, near the mountain’s surface, the remaining guards and workers were somewhat uneasy. The six armed men, seven more loading trucks, and the two in suits, overseeing affairs, that had come to the site with Angosto were all nervously watching the black opening from whence gnomes normally came and went. The two guards that had been sent to check on the lack of incoming orecarrying gnomes had not returned with any word and the situation was growing more tense and distressing by the moment for those that remained. The guards had all moved in closer to the tunnel that led to the mine carts, awaiting something unseen that they feared was in the darkness and was waiting just out of sight to attack. With the movement of every pebble, the guards’ eyes darted to all the darkened passages coming out of every corner of the room, spider-webbing their way through the rock, going who knows where and containing who knows what… That was their greatest fear, though; that something dark and unknown lurked within the mountain. Once their minds had accepted the reality of actual living gnomes, the floodgates had been opened to all manner of superstition, fantasy, and horror that had to be re-evaluated now in the light of having faced the impossible and found it to be a mundane fact of life. There was crying from the cages of gnome children, constantly whimpering in cold, pain, hunger, or any other

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number of discomforts. The guards yelled for quiet, keeping their hearing focused on the tunnels. Even the workers had become slower and more deliberate in their work, loading out the last few bins of rock at a crawl and keeping an eye on all the entrances to the cavern in fear that their labor would be cut short by the coming of something horrible. There was a whine and the guards yelled again for quiet from the cages. It continued, increasing in volume, and they brandished their guns in the hope that the noise would finally stop if a little force was shown. Then a total silence and stillness gripped them all, a paralyzing fear, as they realized that the noise, growing into a deep, wailing moan was coming from the tunnel to the cart circuit and not the cage of captive gnomes, the volume climbing every second into an inhuman roar of multiple pitches. The workers ran toward the exit, watching over their shoulders for the unseen demon they feared lay in wait. The armed men even inched backwards, all longing to escape from this place instead of holding their ground and risking their lives for a hole in the side of a not-particularlyimpressive mountain. Angosto’s men, keeping on the edges of the whole business, stuck their heads into the cavern, cell phones clasped to their ears, talking about business, and wondering what all the commotion was about. They were vastly more desperate to keep their cell reception at the edge of these caves than to escape from unseen and arcane horrors. Unseen horror to them involved a drop-off in stock values or spilling their latte on their new car’s upholstery. Then the moment they (almost) all feared finally arrived when a beast erupted from the tunnel, stomping in at a slow but frightening pace. Most of those watching couldn’t make out the dirty white mass in the dim light shining in from the tunnel to the outside until a cry from the front of the cave gave them all the detail that their eyes had been unable to find in the near-darkness. “Ghostly cave polar bear!” Several of the men shrieked like little girls and ran for the exits immediately, pushing Angosto’s suits aside and running for the highway on foot. Several more froze in place, mouths open in terror at the idea of an angry astral ursine warrior. A very few actually questioned what the hell a “ghostly cave polar bear” was supposed to be and why 172

you’d be afraid of it in the first place, other than the fact that it was a ghost and ghosts are supposed to be scary, but their logic was drowned out in the panic of the moment and all the men were brushed back toward the exit, slinking away as fast as their fear would allow. The bear stood next to the passage it had entered through, doing very little other than wailing and walking in place, which seemed to be more than enough for most of the men. Finally, the suits screamed from their place of relative safely, still on their cell phones. “It’s a fucking bear! Why don’t you just shoot it?” A few men looked awed at the suggestion, others seemed entirely dismissive, unwilling to ire the spirits of dead and magical bears any further, and a couple got ready to actually give the gunfire a try. Before they could lay down fire on the spectral animal, the wail increased a hundredfold and a wave of gnomes with assorted steel implements poured from the tunnel mouth, charging the men, led by a gang of gnomes bearing guns, already firing as they came, sending many of the humans scrambling back for cover or the exit, the screams and gunfire echoing from every corner of the room. Out of the chaos, a few men fired back, but it was sheer madness in the cave and most of the guards broke as more gnomes charged out of the tunnel overlooking the slave cages and, flying through the air on smoke-spewing copper backpacks, dove at them with stone-carving tools and bludgeons. A few held back to free their children, but most swooped onwards to carve at the men’s flesh, almost all of Angosto’s men fleeing for the outside at the head of the onslaught. Those that remained were quickly drowned under the waves of weakened, abused, but angry gnomes, hell-bent to destroy or take out their wrath on their former captors. Men scattered into the wilderness or tore off in vehicles as the flying gnomes shot from the caves and gave chase, throwing rocks and stabbing at their desperate victims with every pass. Pulling off the bear’s head, Bernardo sighed to himself. “Well, Ching, I think we may have managed to win this battle, no thanks to this unwieldy costume. The gnomes are free and our work here seems to be done… Now, just the matter of Ringlon Angosto and Desmond Archipelligo remains.” 173

As the gnomes continued to thrash those humans who hadn’t run screaming early on, Bernardo found one of Angosto’s men, pulling him, screaming, away from their angry hands. “Oh, dear god, thank you!” The man tried to drag himself to his feet, his suit ripped and torn and desperately clutching at his bent and mangled cell phone as he would a life preserver. “Don’t be so quick to thank me, young man.” Bernardo slammed the man against the cave wall by the lapel of his suit. “I’m not saving you… I’m interrogating you! You’re going to tell me everything I want to know about Ringlon Angosto.” “You’re too late! You’ll never get him now!” The man’s sentence broke into choked, maniacal laughter. “He’s gone! Gone! Gone!” Bernardo stopped the gentleman’s laughing by cracking his skull into the cave wall behind him. “What is Mister Angosto up to, little henchman? Laundering gold through Archipelligo’s company? What else?” The frantic man’s eyes bulged. “Ha! What else? He’s in everything, man… He didn’t get to be fucking Ringlon Angosto by pimping whores and stealing gnome gold! He’s in everything you can imagine! He can’t be stopped! He’s in guns, drugs, junk bonds, pyramid scams, green stamps, stolen art, gold, silver, jewels, hacking, cracking, insurance, bookies, folk remedies, racketeering, fraud, check kiting, smuggling, endangered animals, forged documents, mercenaries, car chopping, film distribution, cloning, fish farming, embezzling, porn, cults, vandalism, home invasion, dog-napping, counterfeiting, organ harvesting, piracy, jury tampering, contract killing, and faith healing! You think you can stop him, you schmuck douchebag?” Bernardo let go of the frothing man. “Well, when you put it that way… Yes. How does he think he can get out of Oberwalz without being caught? Surely the law enforcement community can put an end to all his nefarious deeds easily.” “Ha! HA!” The man was in Bernardo’s face, spittle flying as he laughed. “He’s on a private plane, right now, getting the fuck out of Dodge! You bastards will never catch him!”

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The phone rang in Chief Studge Pulatso’s office. He let it ring several times, sighing to himself and trying not to look at the device sitting on his desk. Ever since the previous night’s fire at the private school dorm, he hadn’t stopped receiving angry calls from politicians, members of the local business elite, and government officials, all bitter, mourning, or ready to have him stripped of his job and pension. His ear was still ringing from the governor’s call. But if he didn’t answer it now, it would be even worse later. Pulatso took the handset off the base and put it to his ear. “Pulatso…” There was an odd crackle, a hiss of screaming voices, and more crackling. “Hello? Chief Pulasto’s office… Anyone there?” Another spate of crackling and strange noises nearly deafened him before, with a particularly loud pop, Pulatso could hear a voice. “Chief? Can you hear me?” “Yeah… Barely. With all the crackling, it’s hard to make anything out.” “Sorry about that, sir. Having a technical issue. This is Bernardo Walterhaus.” Studge relaxed and leaned back in his chair, glad to be talking to someone not prepared to scream at him for fifteen minutes regarding the previous night’s arson and shootout. “Oh, hey there, Walterhaus. How are things going today? You make it home alright last night?” “Ah…” There were several screams and crackles from the phone and Pulatso had to hold it nearly at arm’s length for a moment until the roar subsided. “Walterhaus? What the hell is all that noise?” A few more crackles and Bernardo’s voice returned. “…el…o. Ar… …ing this?” “Walterhaus?” Another pop and Bernardo was back, audible through the fuzz of background noise. “Hello? Hello? Yes, I’m here… This cell phone is broken, Chief. I’m barely holding it together. Not mine, though, so I can’t really complain… I called to tell you that you need to get the men and come as quickly as possible to Mount Oberwalz. Big goings-on out here that I’m sure you’ll want to be involved with.”

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“The mountain? Shouldn’t you be calling a ranger or the state troopers?” There was more screaming and shouting in the background before Bernardo finally spoke. “No, Fwooter… No. Not the axe. It’s unsanitary… Sorry, Chief. Having some problems with the gnomes.” “Gnomes? What in the jumpity-fuck are you talking about, Walterhaus?” “Sir, there’s a crisis under the mountain. Ching and I tracked down a dirty business deal between Archipelligo and a crime lord named Ringlon Angosto to a mine in the mountain. They enslaved a clan of gnomes and stole their gold… We’ve taken back the caverns, but this will need some tying and tidying up. Angosto is at the airport, attempting to escape on his private plane. You’ve got to have the federal forces shut down the airport, prevent him from leaving, get your men here to arrest his mercenaries, and we have to arrest Desmond Archipelligo before they manage to get away!” Pulatso sat and thought for a few moments. There were a few more crackles. “…still there, Chief?” “Yes, Walterhaus… I was just wondering what the fuck you’re talking about. Gnomes? Mercenaries? Desmond Archipelligo, for Christ’s sake? Are you insane?” “Doctors have claimed as much, though they could never prove it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not undeniably correct. And, if your men ever get here, they’ll be goiterdeep in a sea of gnomes and mercenary henchmen, believe you me.” Pulatso sighed. “Fine, Walterhaus. I’ll send the men. But I can guarantee you that this tale will not wash with the feds, so I can tell you now that there is not a chance in holy jumping, flaming hell that they will actually shut down Franz Kafka for a second or even ground his private jet. You’re on your own there… Which is to say, if you’re not fucking crazy and anything you said is actually true, you’re not catching him, unless these gnomes have magic wands for shooting down planes!” “Well, I don’t think magic is a strong point of the gnomish society, but I’ll look into it. Thank you very much yet again, Chief Pulatso.” “I’d be careful with Archipelligo if I were you, Walterhaus. He’s too powerful to be arresting over nothing. You’re bound to really get in the shit again for this one…”

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“Oh, Chief, worry not for me. I am more than prepared for him and his minions. And lawyers. And pet Mayor.” “Good luck, Bernardo.” “I should hope I don’t need it, Studge. But thank you, nonetheless.”

Long before the distant sound of sirens reached the cave, before the weak sound of weeping and subdued guards was all that could be heard in the cavern’s vicinity, and before all the gnomes gathered their brothers and children and headed for their underground home, Bernardo, Ching and Fwooter were left to catch Angosto alone. Bernardo tossed the broken cell phone at Angosto’s cowering assistant, hitting him in the forehead. “Well, Chief Pulatso was good enough to send his men here to hopefully round up Angosto’s hirelings and bring some order back to this lawless locale. We are left to our own devices to bring Angosto under the hand of the law, though, as it is apparently impossible to have his plane grounded. Desmond Archipelligo will also receive no punishment if we do not step forward and do our part to bring these criminal enterprises to an end at this moment.” There was a groan of general concern from the dozens of gnomes grouped around him. “I fear that we cannot make it downhill to the ranger’s station to retrieve our car, drive to Franz Kafka Memorial Airport, and stop Angosto… He could be taking off at this very moment and it is a virtual impossibility that we’ll be able to catch him in time. So, perhaps, we have lost him for now and should concentrate our resources on Mr. Archipelligo.” Fwooter stepped forward. “Fear not, lad, I have just the device to take care of that problem. We’ll get Angosto yet and we gnomes will have our revenge!” The gnomes cheered their leader with the renewed vigor of free men. Bernardo admired it, but he was left to wonder exactly what he was about to get himself into.

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Chapter 19 Rocket To Adventure “Are we sure that this is completely safe?” Bernardo seemed concerned as he was being strapped into the seat, which was gnome-sized, as were the belts, making it awfully tight for him. “Lad, would I be sitting here with you were it not?” Fwooter’s reassurance didn’t seem to matter to Ching, who already appeared a bit green. And the device hadn’t even been activated yet. “Has it ever been tried before?” Fwooter laughed. “Don’t you think all you people wouldn’t have bloody well noticed it? Oh… Well, after watching some of those ‘mystery’ shows you people so love, it’d be easy to see how you’d be confused… Seems your government doesn’t want you to know nothing about anything. So, amongst all the silly tales of aliens and whatnot, you’d never know the difference or believe it at all…” Bernardo stared, still listening to the speech, his expression somewhat uncomfortable and detached. “Oh, yes, where was I? Ah… Yes, we’ve tried the bloody thing. Not very long or very high. But it was tried, damn it!” Bernardo looked at Ching, who seemed ready to run for the hills (or under them, as the case may be), though much of that impression might have come from the uncomfortably small seat and unbelievably restrictive belts, crisscrossing his body. “Well, if that’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.” Ching grunted in a way that was vastly different than his usual vocalization of resigned acceptance. It was the sound of a very unhappy man about to do something that he knew was very stupid. Fwooter tightened his seat straps and put on a pair of safety goggles very similar to Bernardo’s. Noticing, Bernardo lowered his goggles over his eyes. “Ah… Brought your own, I see? Very good! You may be cut out for this yet, Bernardo!” Fwooter chuckled with glee. At the sight of the delighted little man, Bernardo had to smile as well and settled himself into the seat, prepared to experience something totally new and different. Ching was not.

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A small brass horn on the control panel next to Fwooter emitted a tinny sound. “Majesty, we’re ready in ten seconds.” Fwooter screamed into the horn, poking at buttons. “Good enough, lads! We’re ready!” They all sat back and gripped the gnome-sized armrest handles built onto their seats as the rumbling began. “Bloody well hang on, lads!” Fwooter’s scream was the last thing they heard.

Ringlon Angosto was safe and snug, not at all cramped, in the seat of his small private jet, large enough to comfortably seat a dozen people, though it was currently outfitted for six. Though, on that particular day, the only soul on the plane aside from the pilots was Angosto. One pilot stuck his head through the curtain separating the cockpit from the main cabin, where Angosto leaned back on the fine leather seat, reading a newspaper while sipping a glass of Scotch. “We’re ready for take-off, Mr. Angosto.” Ringlon Angosto smiled. “Get me the hell out of this shithole, Captain. I want to be back in civilization as quickly as you can manage.” The pilot nodded and his head disappeared back through the curtain into the cockpit, leaving Ringlon alone to read as the plane taxied, sped up, shuddered, and lifted into the air above Oberwalz, circling around to distance itself from the airport before starting on its course Northwest over the city. There had been an apartment fire of some kind that had drawn quite a bit of attention the night before and much of the paper’s front section was dedicated to its coverage. It seemed typical to Ringlon that this shitty little town would have so little news taking place that there would be this much coverage over some building burning down. He flipped to the business section and checked on Archipelligo stock. The transfer of gold into stock was new to him and he was still suspicious of the dividends of this experimental venture, as he still preferred the old-fashioned method of turning goods into cash and not into, essentially, another good to be sold. But very little had been conventional about this whole affair, he thought, so why not

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take the extra risk and take a lump of stock? Stock was still easier to sell or transfer than tons of gold. And gold that he couldn’t fence was not the kind that he preferred to deal in. The only time he’d known less about moving a product was when he ended up with a truckload of stolen llamas. Who bought llamas? Who even sold llamas? Eventually, he found someone to take the spitting beasts off his hands, over the internet, of course, since that’s where you found every strange and deviant business venture these days. And Ringlon was a purist, even in crime, preferring to do business the other old-fashioned way: in person. Of course, there wasn’t much of that anymore, people preferring to do strange and extended deals over long distances, communicating through the most bizarre means, carrier pigeon, e-mail, who knows what, and turning a once well-oiled machine into a struggling operation of disconnected foot soldiers barely knowing what they were doing or who they were working for. It was disgraceful and he would have it no longer. So now he was making sure all business went through him and that he oversaw some aspect of all his ventures. This opened him up to more liability, but he knew what rolls to butter and what joints to grease, the old-fashioned way. But it also assured him that the organization was operating as it was supposed to and his underlings at last understood how to commit crime properly and what was expected of them. And those who hadn’t kept up his expectations had met horrible fates, fates that only added to his legend. Ringlon had just started to look through the arts section of the paper, when he began to hear a frantic murmur from the cockpit. His ears perked up, but he couldn’t tell what the pilots were yelling into their headsets. He was just about to unbuckle his seatbelt and head to the cockpit to find out what all the noise was about when the plane lurched violently, a noise tearing from the tail section like an explosion, and the air was sucked from the cabin as they careened downward.

In the tower, the air traffic controllers were frantic, trying to identify the fast-moving blip on their radar, closing in on Angosto’s jet at an unbelievable rate.

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“Christ! I’ve never seen anything like this, ever!” The controller was trying to keep the pilots of the small plane calm, but it was a pointless venture. Over the radio, they could hear the men screaming and arguing as they attempted to evade the other blip as it screamed toward them. The controller turned and shouted in the face of his calmer, more subdued superior. “What the hell is it? A missile? A jet? A UFO? What?” The superior slapped the younger man across the face, a gesture that silenced him immediately. “Hold it together, boy. Stop being a pussy and get the situation under control.” He leaned in close to the screen. “Now, if I were you, I’d work on getting that plane down fast… Because I haven’t seen anything like this since I was in the military.” The younger man was shaken. “Jesus… Are we under attack? Is it terrorists?” The old man scratched his chin. “No, son. Much more strange and rare than all that. It looks like a god damned gnome rocket…”

“Hang on, lads! We’re on her!” Fwooter gripped the large handle in front of him, looking through a periscope-like device that was connected to the roof of the vehicle or at least what had seemed like the roof before they were launched, spinning through the air. With a jerk of the control handle, the rocket veered, screeching in resistance as it closed on the plane. Bernardo screamed as loud as he could, his hands covering his ears to block out the roaring noise, the spinning of the rocket making him as sick as Ching and keeping him pressed against the seat as they turned end over end. “I hadn’t thought to ask… How are we going to bring it down? Or are we going to board the plane?” Fwooter leaned away from the viewport of the scope. “We’re going to bring it down the good old way, boys! We’re going to blow it the hell out of the sky!” With a spine-shattering crash, the sense of movement was torn from them and their bodies were ripped against their seat belts as if they’d hit a concrete wall. Then the sense of motion reappeared, a feeling of shooting downward.

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“Well, at least we aren’t too bloody high!” Fwooter pulled a lever and, with another tremendous jerk and the sound of twisting and shearing metal, they began a slow descent, hanging upside-down in their seats.

Angosto and the pilots were left to scream like little girls as the gnome rocket ripped into the tail of the plane, creating a gaping rent in the rear, the fuselage cracking and the jet engines falling away on fire. There were seconds of panic as the plane shot downward like a stone and then, with the snap of a rope being pulled taut, the rocket’s cone was ripped from the plane, leaving nothing but a hole behind, the blue sky visible above through the huge orifice. The rocket floated down toward the earth on a giant, colorful parachute, ejected from its rear base with the pull of a lever. The crippled jet spun out of control, like a wounded and retarded goose, all matter of debris falling from its torn shell, as it careened downward to the tree line on the edge of the river, where it shattered into several pieces on impact.

The gnome rocket touched ground with a bump, falling immediately over onto its side, and rolling downhill until, with the snapping of timber and the creak of distressed metal, it was stopped by a stand of trees. Bernardo and Ching felt ill but were none the worse for wear. Fwooter seemed more chipper than ever, as he climbed to one of the side hatches not facing toward the ground and, pushing it up, swung the metal door out onto the exterior of the rocket with a clank. Fwooter grabbed a handhold and pulled himself up and out of the rocket. “Let’s go, boys!” Bernardo and Ching could barely hear him, ears still ringing from their journey. But they definitely wanted out of the cramped interior of the rocket and stood up through the hatch opening, it only coming up to their collarbone when standing fully erect. Getting a hand on the exterior, they climbed out into the woods around the edges of the East

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Oberwalz River, though which side of the river they were on was anyone’s guess. Nearby, they saw chunks of debris and twisted metal from the downed jet, as well as smell the fumes of its smoldering remains and burning fuel. “I guess we should take a look and see if we haven’t completely destroyed the man we hoped to catch, eh, Fwooter?” The little man, perfectly happy to have gotten use out of his rocket, didn’t seem to mind that they may very well have killed Ringlon Angosto or lost his body entirely. “Let’s have a bloody look then, lads!” Ching, Bernardo, and Fwooter unsteadily made their way down the slope into more trees, pieces of wing and fuselage hanging in the branches like Christmas decorations. The main section of the plane, the nosecone, cockpit, and main cabin area, sat on its side on the forest floor, the large cracks and tears in the exterior running across it like the stretch marks on a fat woman’s gut. “Bloody hell.” Fwooter walked around the decimated jet, examining the wreckage, as Bernardo and Ching searched for remains. “Very effective.” As they rounded the end of the plane, where the back used to be, they could see down its length, seats lying everywhere. “Hello?” No one was in sight and there was no answer from the cabin. Bernardo worked his way inside, crawling across what used to be the jet’s ceiling toward the dangling curtain still hiding the cockpit. Inside, he found the broken bodies of the pilots, still hanging in their seat belts. “Well, that’s no good at all. A most regrettable set of casualties.” He sighed, not quite sure if he could forgive himself for the death of the men at that moment. Bernardo crawled his way out to Ching. “Well, the pilots are dead…” He was interrupted by a rustle of brush as Ringlon Angosto rounded the exterior of the plane’s chassis, limping heavily and coated in his own blood, and pointed a gun at Ching. “No one move or the Chinaman dies!” Bernardo stood up and brushed himself off. “I said ‘no one move’!” Fwooter rounded the corner and walked over to see what the commotion was. 183

Angosto shrieked, punctuating his words with his pointed gun. “For the love of god, how many times do I have to say not to move?” Bernardo stared at the face of Ringlon Angosto, the mysterious figure whose name was spoken in whispers and whose nefarious deeds were too many to name, and he was rather unimpressed with the very normal, average-looking man, though he was dirty, torn, and bloodied by the crash, which likely melted away whatever impressive physical characteristics he might have possessed. “Oh, please, let’s forgo the theatrics, Mr. Angosto. I’m not playing ‘Red Light/Green Light’ or ‘Simon Says’ with you. If you want to deal with me, let us discuss this like normal people.” Angosto’s eyes lit up with a certain fire. “Normal people don’t crash planes with their… what the hell is that thing? A bomb?” Angosto was referring to the copper, brass and iron tube lying up the hill against the trees, its stabilizing fins somewhat bent in their landing or, really, the subsequent roll downhill. “Oh… That’s a gnome rocket. Perhaps you should have looked farther into their technology, if you were going to go out of your way to exploit them. Amazing advances for such a small culture, no pun intended.” Angosto cocked his weapon in a well-placed attempt to threaten his captives. “Well, I’ll remember that in the future.” “It should be known that there will be no future for you…” Angosto sneered at Bernardo’s insolence. “What? You think the three of you can stop my entire criminal empire with a gnome rocket?” “If you’d let me finish… Your exploits at the mountain are now ended, as the police are currently undoubtedly arresting all the captured ne’er-do-wells and scoundrels in your employ, whose pacification we engineered in your absence.” Angosto fumed. “So, that little delay that I told them to take care of was a little more than just unhappy gnomes, trying to go on strike. Well, I can buy more men and, after I’m done with you, those little pygmy fucks will be only too glad to comply with my wishes, if they don’t want their women and children dead.” “You seriously believe that you might murder the three of us, standing right next to what’s left of your personal 184

private jet, with help on the way to the crash site, and you will not be held at all responsible?” “I’ll risk it.” Angosto raised the gun to Ching’s head and tightened his finger around the trigger.

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Chapter 20 Rounding Up The Posse The phone on the desk in the office of Desmond Archipelligo’s mansion rang. Reading over some papers, he lazily picked up the receiver. “Yes?” There was a long pause as he listened. He sat bolt upright in the chair, gripping at the wood, his fingernails digging trenches in its varnish. “They did what? Are they coming here? No. Do they know? DO THEY KNOW?” Archipelligo slammed the phone down, screaming like a wild animal. The sound of his feet pounding on the marble floors could be heard throughout the house as he began to madly pack all the papers, records, financial documents, and money he could into briefcases, suitcases, shopping bags, and any luggage he could find. He had to get out of there. Very quickly.

The crack of the gun never came. At least not the gun they expected. There was a sound like a cannon going off, a bucket full of blood, flesh, and gristle erupting from the kneecap of Ringlon Angosto, sending the man screaming to his one remaining knee in agony. Taking that opportunity, Ching twisted the gun from Angosto’s hand, the wrist snapping as the weapon was wrenched away, eliciting yet another incredibly deep and visceral howl from the wounded Angosto, who collapsed pitifully on the ground. When next Angosto looked up, he thought a sewer pipe was falling from the sky into his cornea. Mopper Rod growled at him from behind the barrel of his enormous gun. “If you fucking twitch a muscle, I’m going to spread enough of you around this place to sell it as modern art.” The loud tromping of feet coming down the hill continued as waves of rescue personnel, police, firemen, and EMT’s poured through the woods, looking for survivors, victims, criminals, and heroes. Bernardo slapped Mopper on the shoulder. “How did you find us and get here so quickly?”

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The gun didn’t flinch from Angosto’s eye for a moment. “Well, we were running late getting over to the mountain… We stopped for ribs…” Gusto, of course, piped in from behind. “Lenny’s Big Rib Shack.” “Yeah, so after that, we were riding over to the… gnome joint… and we were heading over the Rolston Hooier Bridge, right where you can see the mountain real good… And there’s this plume of smoke and fire as something shoots out of the mountainside, heads for the airport, curves back around toward us… So I stopped the car and we watched it hit a plane and go down.” Mopper looked over to Gusto. “And the Chief said you had flipped out and something was going on with planes and Archipelligo and dwarves…” “Damn it! Gnomes! Gnomes! Bloody fucking gnomes!” Everyone finally looked down at Fwooter, who’d been standing there, unnoticed, with them since help had arrived. Gusto snorted. “Shit. Ain’t that somethin’?”

Bernardo finished the explanation of what exactly was going on, up the hillside at Mopper’s car, to the assembled group of important police officials, Mopper, Gusto, Sanchez, Chief Pulatso, members of the fire department, and the police commissioner, who had just arrived at the scene. Bernardo’s explanation of the events up to that point complete, everyone turned to the Commissioner, who had the highest rank and political importance of anyone there, making him, therefore, the one in charge. “Do you really expect us to believe your story about bears and gnomes and Desmond Archipelligo laundering gold for some jet-setting criminal named Angosto? I mean, do you have any proof at all?” “Well, we do still have several of Archipelligo’s personal files relating to the matter. And I’m sure Mr. Angosto would be most interested in revealing all his secrets at the moment. Plus, you have the eyewitness accounts of many gnomes.” Dirty little Fwooter banged a fist on the side of the car. “Aye!”

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“You can’t seriously expect…” The Commissioner looked at Fwooter with a dismissive gaze that earned a growl from the gnome. “Commissioner, he is a king. I don’t think the Mayor would be too keen to see you insult royalty from the underground kingdom today. Dell seems to stay in enough trouble with his human political counterparts without you helping him to shame gnomes and I doubt that his tenure is going to last much longer as it is.” “Jesus Christ.” The Commissioner took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Fine. Pulatso, send your men to pick up Archipelligo. Just don’t these incompetent schmucks screw everything up… Do it quietly. If this goes bad, I don’t want any of this coming back to bite me in the ass and your retarded men have a habit of making everything worse.” Mopper frowned. “We’re standing right here, you know? We can hear you.”

Pulatso had grudgingly allowed them to go, even with the police commissioner’s stamp of approval on the mission. Bernardo explained the situation to Fwooter, who stayed behind to help load the gnome rocket onto a flatbed truck to be taken back to Mount Oberwalz, where the police were still rounding up the former guards and the gnomes were celebrating their newfound freedom. Fwooter and Bernardo shook hands and a promise was made for the men to visit as soon as everything was straightened out on the surface, so that Bernardo and Ching could see the true majesty of the underground kingdom and be honored for their part in the emancipation of the gnomish people. Mopper, Gusto, Sanchez, Ching, and Bernardo squeezed into the sedan and tore away from the edge of the wilderness, the crash site shockingly close to the highway, speeding back across the East Oberwalz, through town, onto Highway 15, and North to the Shutterset East exit, all as quickly as the battered car would go. They were not going to let Desmond Archipelligo get away.

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Inside his mansion, Archipelligo had packed his belongings and was trying to load everything into the trunk of his limo. He had called repeatedly over the intercom for the limo driver before realizing that Pepé had disappeared with his daughter days before and there was no driver staying at the house to whisk him off to his escape. That being a worry for another time, he had phoned the fill-in driver, insisting that he arrive at the house immediately to get Desmond as far away from Oberwalz as possible, no amount of complaints being enough to override the tycoon’s desires. As he waited, he suffered the indignity of loading his own limo with luggage, but, if it meant him getting away faster, he was willing to do it. The fact that he could have just as easily driven the limo away himself never occurred to him. He was in the house gathering some of the last bags of loot and incriminating documents when he heard the screech of car tires coming up his driveway, followed by the sound of something smashing through one of the large stone planters lining the driveway. Peeking through the blinds and seeing men that were not his driver pour out of an incredibly ratty and roughlooking car, he pulled out his cell phone and called his lawyer. “Dear Christ, Harry! Harry! I think the cops are here! You’ve got to do something! Call the Governor! Call the President! Don’t let them take me to jail! I can’t survive in prison! I’m soft! They’ll rape me in the ass!” The histrionics of his phone call were interrupted by a man bursting through his door in what appeared to be a chauffeur’s uniform. His mind calmed as he saw the man. “Thank God…” The words stopped on their way out of his mouth and he realized his error as more men poured through the doorway behind the first, three men wearing detective’s badges on the front of their jackets and Walterhaus taking up the rear. “The detective? Walterhaus? What the hell are you doing here? Where’s my daughter?” Bernardo shook his head disapprovingly. “My dear Desmond, you’ve been a most naughty boy. After having witnessed your treatment of the gnomes, I’m most

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disappointed in you. These men are here to make you pay for your crimes.” Archipelligo backed away. “Walterhaus, let’s be reasonable about this… I’ve got money. I can make all of you rich if this goes away. I’ll take care of things with the Mayor… Hell, I can make you the next Mayor, if you want!” Bernardo walked closer, flanked by his friends. “As tempting as that offer may be, Desmond, my friends in the police department do tend to frown upon bribery. And I have to admit that I find it quite disgusting as well, though I’m sure I could hold political office as well as the next man or other forest creature, as the case may be.” Archipelligo’s attempts at bargaining turned into anger as he was backed into the foyer wall. “You’ll never get me! No matter what you find, what you do, I have lawyers that will make it go away! Nothing will ever stick to me! And I’ll see that all of you are thrown away in prison! Disgraced! Anally raped and murdered in a shower! I can make all of you pay!” “This is a rather disturbing side to your personality that we’re seeing today, Mr. Archipelligo. Rather unsavory and rather like the moose trapped in the rockslide, flailing as he’s buried alive.” Mopper drew his gun from its holster, letting the giant weapon dangle in his grasp. “And as far as disgracing us, we do just fine on our own. Don’t really need any help there.” Gusto drew his own weapon, a gun nearly as large as Mopper’s. “So, are we going to do this shit the hard way? Because I brought my big gun to this shindig.” “The only thing that’s going to be done is you assholes are going to put down your weapons.” The voice came from behind them. They turned and saw the severely bruised and beaten Francois and Rudy, looking worse than ever in their torn clothes and bloody bandages. “You can’t be serious.” Mopper raised his pistol. “Guns down, pigs! We’re not going to fuck with you this time!” Mopper hesitated and they all looked at each other, trying to size up the situation. Archipelligo muttered happily to himself behind them. “Oh, thank you… I’ll make you rich for this.” “Dr. Lombardo is going to get his, Walterhaus.” “Oh, indeed he shall, lads. I’m sure that man will be held accountable for his involvement somewhere down the 190

road in this web of intrigue and dirty hand-washing. And, like the aging celebrity, he too must pay the proverbial taxman. He has come up short in the game of Life and has been found wanting for small plastic pegs.” The two moved forward. “You’re coming with us.” “No one move.” This voice came yet again from the doorway, an angry and well-armed Ed Quackenbush and Moose appearing behind Francois and Rudy. “Nobody is taking Walterhaus but me.” Moose growled. “And Moose gets the Chink. I don’t care what the hell the rest of you do to each other. Have a Rose Parade in Santa’s asshole for all I care.” Rudy bristled and puffed up his damaged chest as much as he could. “Well, sorry, Johnny Come-Lately, but we’re already here and we’re taking Walterhaus back to the Institute.” Quackenbush placed a sawed-off shotgun in the man’s face. “I don’t give a flying fuck what you think you’re doing. There’s unfinished business here and, if you’re lucky, I won’t beat the ever-living fuck out of you, you mummy-looking retard.” Ed and Moose started to move in, herding the group back with their shotguns, pushing everyone toward Archipelligo. There was a click and a burst of gunfire, aimed at Archipelligo’s expensive ceiling. Behind Ed and Moose stood the heavily-bandaged Sid and Morty, holding assault rifles in their arms that weren’t bandaged or splinted. Madame Kreuschfach hobbled into the room behind them and looked at all the gathered men holding weapons. “Vell, vell… Vat haf ve heah, bohys?” Mopper fumed. “What, did you fuckers carpool?” Bernardo looked at Ching. “This is going to be a very long night, my friend.”

Kreuschfach’s men lined the group up. There was a burst of angry discourse as to who would have Bernardo’s head after this was all over, most of which was related to the relative size of the armament of those involved. Quackenbush and the orderlies had no interest whatsoever in Archipelligo, though Francois and Rudy were intrigued by the mention of being made unbelievably rich. Quackenbush was definitely tempted as well, fortune being

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the only motivating factor in his continued involvement. Madame Kreuschfach, having courted Archipelligo’s favor for her failed criminal undertaking, was more than happy to save the man in the hopes that he would grant her some boon in the unseen future. Though the real motivation for everyone was their universal disdain for Bernardo, wanting retribution ranging from simple incarceration to the extreme of murder. In the meantime, Bernardo, Ching, Mopper, Gusto, and Sanchez all clustered together and waited for the arguing to hopefully boil into their enemies killing each other, though it didn’t look like things were going to go quite that far, much to their chagrin. “Yu dun’t zeem to untershtand… Ze mann blaw oop my kassel. He nahrly kilt me und my unterlings.” Madame Kreuschfach seemed nearly teary as she recounted her experience with Bernardo. Francois was exasperated. “Well, I don’t think you understand that we’ve taken two separate ass-kickings just to take him back to the Institute.” Quackenbush guffawed and slapped his knee. “You act like it’s a goddamned college. Why don’t you just call it what it is? A fucking asylum. A nuthouse!” Rudy stepped up into Ed’s face, eliciting a growl from Moose. “Well, why don’t you just call yourself what you are? A fucking junk-man.” “You little son of a bitch…” Ed fumed and looked like he was about to punch Rudy in the head. “Genteelmen, ve ahr gettink novhere. Parhaps ve jus keel him togethar?” Ed’s response to Madame Kreuschfach involved more yelling and a bulging of the veins in the man’s neck. “Yeah… Well, I need him alive, Mrs. Fakey-Accent, so he can call off the dogs that are currently eating up my credit and bank accounts!” Kreuschfach stomped her foot and dropped the accent. “God damn it! Is the fake accent that noticeable? I mean, really. Come on…” “Yes. You sound like fucking Colonel Klink.” “Well, he was German, you know.” “Yeah, and he also sounded like a jackass. Sid Caesar did a better German accent than you and he was a fucking comedian.”

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Sid pointed his rifle at Quackenbush, though Kreuschfach half-heartedly motioned for him to step back. “Well, at least I’m not a child molester.” “God damn it! The statutory rape charges were dropped! And she was over the age of consent!” There were chuckles from everyone in the room. “That’s not what I heard.” “That’s it…” Ed checked the shells in his shotgun and prepared to spray them all with buckshot. “You fuckers have gone too far.” Archipelligo whined from his place against the wall. “Can someone just let me go? I’ve got money.” Madame Kreuschfach smiled at the man. “Desmond, you’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” “No, he won’t.” The two men in black ski masks were in the doorway, covering the room with their silenced pistols. “You!” Archipelligo yelped at the sight of the men. Francois moaned. “Oh… not you fuckers.” “Hello, little kidnappers. Sorry to get the drop on you again. But Mr. Walterhaus and Mr. Archipelligo are ours. No one crosses Ringlon Angosto and lives.” Bernardo finally bothered to speak over all the yelling. “So, I take it you’ve heard the news regarding Mr. Angosto’s capture?” “That’s why we’re here. We’re going to make sure that Archipelligo doesn’t become a bigger problem than he already has been. That, unfortunately, means that everyone here has to die.” Bernardo stroked his chin. “Yes, that would be most unfortunate.”

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Chapter 21 Showdown At Climax Creek Everyone in the large marble-floored foyer had a gun drawn, pointed at someone else, except for Bernardo, Ching, Desmond Archipelligo, and Madame Kreuschfach. It was a bad situation to begin with, as the room was large and open, leaving no cover to hide from gunfire, if and when it finally started, behind the few small, opulent furnishings, forcing everyone to stand, staring at each other like a pack of guntoting idiots. Things had gone from bad to worse with the appearance of the mercenaries, hired by Ringlon Angosto, apparently still loyal to their master and out for vengeance. The fact that they were going to kill everyone in sight to eliminate as much evidence against Angosto as possible was admirable, from the standpoint of pure loyalty, though everyone else in the room had trouble seeing it that way. Francois and Rudy were extremely distressed, as they were already in far over their heads and embroiled in enough feuding without getting involved with professional hitters who wanted to shoot them for not really knowing much about anything, other than their deep first-hand knowledge of first aid application. Sid and Morty were also somewhat distressed, as they had enough on their minds already, after being nearly blown up in an ancient castle, so they were angry to be confronted with another direct threat to their well-being so soon afterwards. Well, Sid did most of the being angry. Morty continued to smile and lope around like a monkey, holding his rifle like a baby doll. Ed and Moose, of course, were completely prepared for yet another round of violence and were just as glad to point shotguns at mercenaries as they were Bernardo, the orderlies, or Madame Kreuschfach. They were always game for a fight, even a losing one, and the latest entrants couldn’t dissuade Ed from getting what he wanted, as nothing ever seemed to. This left Mopper, Gusto, and Sanchez to attempt to maintain order, ironically, Mopper and Gusto really more interested in shooting people they didn’t like than the general welfare of the populace or gnomes, but they definitely liked their friends and they’d be damned if they

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were going to let some ski mask-wearing mooks come along and shoot Bernardo or Ching. “Aren’t you glad I brought my big gun?” Gusto smiled at Mopper. “Yeah… It’ll make all the difference in the world… Though, truthfully, if I had known that everybody was going to show up, I would have brought something that held more bullets.” “Yep. Six isn’t enough.” “Especially with nine people that need shooting.” The head mercenary pointed his gun at Mopper. “How about you two shut up and put those guns down?” “How about you eat ten dicks, jag-off? Mind your own business before I blow your fucking ski mask off.” The masked man stepped closer. “That’s tough talk from some cop that’s about to die in a couple of seconds.” Mopper smiled. “It was tough enough for your boss when I blew a chunk out of his knee the size of the Grand fucking Canyon.” The tension was palpable as the masked man’s temper flared and everyone very much began to wish there were a few parked cars or brick walls in the big open foyer to hide behind. Instead, they all stood where, only days before, Bernardo, the Mayor, and Archipelligo had argued and talked and Bernardo’s search for Louissa had truly begun in earnest. And, now, it was ending here, with Archipelligo a ringleader in a gnome slavery plot and a bevy of enemies out for blood. Desmond Archipelligo sat behind a potted plant and wished that he was never born.

When the gunfire finally started, as it was inevitable that it would, Bernardo couldn’t quite tell what had happened, as it all seemed like a blur of motion and gunfire to him. Ching, of course, had the foresight to throw him out of the way as soon as the shooting had started. He ended up sliding across the marble floor to rest behind the large potted plant with Archipelligo. Perhaps Ching had hoped that Desmond Archipelligo would also act as a fleshy shield.

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Nevertheless, Bernardo missed much of the action while trying to gather himself after the toss. The fuming had actually risen to the point that Mopper and the lead masked bandit had fired almost simultaneously, but with very different results. The masked man, of course, had fired a round at Mopper, who was already moving, though he managed to nick Mopper’s shoulder, the gun firing with a “pfff” because of the large silencer at its tip. In the enclosure full of pointed guns and packed-in bodies, Mopper had decided to go the less-conventional route and had fired a huge round into Moose’s head, splattering the expensive floor with gore and brain matter. Ed stared slack-jawed as his henchman’s body tumbled limply to the ground, wondering if Mopper had missed and hit his compatriot by mistake. That question was answered in the negative when Mopper slid across the marble and used Moose’s large body as a meaty mass of cover. As the lead masked assassin pumped a round into Moose’s prone and now surely-dead body, Gusto moved forward, grabbing Ed from behind in a wedgie and lifting him fully off the ground by his boxer shorts. Ed squealed like a girl as the surprisingly-strong Gusto carried him like a human shield. “We definitely need to get bulletproof vests.” Mopper tried to peek over Moose’s corpse but several more shots popped into the unmoving body, causing Mopper to lay back down. The other masked mercenary fired on Gusto several times, catching Ed Quackenbush in the thigh. “Fuck! My leg! Don’t shoot me! Shoot him!” The screaming didn’t seem to help, as the man continued to fire at Ed and Gusto indiscriminately. Sid, in the meantime, decided the time was right to start firing off his rifle and began peppering the room with rounds. Luckily for Gusto, he managed to rake fire directly across the second masked man, dropping him to the ground, but continued the spray of bullets on across the wall and toward Ed and Gusto. Ed, despite being carried in the most uncomfortable position possible, had the sense to lift his shotgun and send Sid toppling over with a blast, leaving him bleeding and full of buckshot against the wall in a crumpled ball. Rudy and Francois, of course, attempted to run away, heading straight toward Bernardo and Desmond, but they were easily apprehended by Ching, who smashed their 196

already-damaged heads together, dropping their limp bodies to the floor and rushing into the fight. Mopper managed a good shot that passed through the remaining masked assailant’s calf. “That’s for ruining a perfectly good suit jacket, you fuck!” The merc hobbled back out of the door, using the entranceway as cover. Morty dropped his rifle to the ground and hid behind Madame Kreuschfach, who was yet again waddling in her tight vinyl gown, this time in a circle, desperate for an escape. Ching knocked her over on his way for the door, leaping past her, leaving the poor woman collapsed onto Morty’s body and lying, prone, on the floor in a heap. Unable to stand up in the dress, she laid on top of the mentally incompetent man for some time, unmoving. Sanchez, for what it was worth, stood back and laid down covering fire, which amounted to very little other than noise and the destruction of Archipelligo’s expensive paneling, as every shot went wild and missed any potential target. Later, he would claim that he didn’t even remember firing, which may have been true, as his shooting was panicked and wild, even for poor, simple Sanchez. Ed elbowed Gusto hard in the face and, with a grunt, was dropped to the ground, sending splinters of pain through the gunshot wound in his thigh. Ed attempted to turn and fire his shotgun into Gusto’s gut, but had conveniently forgotten to reload after shooting Sid, leaving him standing there with a stupid look on his face. As he was quickly popping the cartridges from the breach in a race to beat Gusto, who was regaining his composure, Ching kicked Quackenbush in the throat, sending him to the ground like a sack of dead ferrets, moaning with a most unfortunate gurgling sound. Leaning back around the corner, the masked man fired with two guns, shots popping all around as he attempted to shoot anyone and everyone in the room. Bodies fell as people dived for non-existent cover and chunks of incredibly expensive marble flooring and hardwood crown molding, imported all the way from Brazil, exploded into the air. The masked man limped into the room again and aimed one gun at Ed, the other at Mopper, ready for the coup de grace. “Well, I guess our time together is up. I’ll remember you fondly.”

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Light flooded in from behind the assassin like a sun rising in the doorway. He turned, shielding his eyes, to see what was going on. “This is the police. Put down your weapons. You are surrounded.” S.W.A.T. team members poured into the house from every possible angle, training guns on everyone and waiting for an excuse to shoot. Chief Pulatso, the Commissioner, and several top police officials followed a phalanx of officers into the foyer, gathering up people off the floor and stripping others of guns. “Looks like we showed up just in time… Rod! Gusto! Is this your idea of a simple arrest?” Pulatso looked over the carnage and destruction, his face a map of disgusted annoyance. Mopper stood up from behind Moose’s body, holding his bleeding shoulder. “For once, this was not my idea.” Gusto was helped to his feet by some junior officers. He rubbed at his face, grunting in pain. “Definitely not part of the plan.” Gusto punctuated his sentence with a kick to Ed Quackenbush’s forehead. Quackenbush rolled on the ground, moaning, as officers moved in to attach handcuffs to his wrists. “You sons of bitches…” “Save it, Quackenbush.” Pulatso walked over to where Mopper, Gusto, and Sanchez were collecting themselves and receiving medical attention. “Who wants to tell me exactly what in the name of Jesus’ left testicle is going on here?” Mopper winced as his coat was stripped away and pressure was applied to his gunshot wound. “Well, we tried to arrest Archipelligo, these damned orderlies laying over here tried to kidnap Bernardo, Quackenbush showed up with his dead friend over there to beat the piss out of Bernardo instead, but Madame Kreuschfach and her boys got the drop on them. Then things got really bad when these mercs that Angosto hired showed up to off everybody.” The policemen cuffing the man pulled off his ski mask, revealing his face. There was a gasp from some of the other police officers. “Rod, that’s Andre Torkelsson… He’s wanted by the FBI and Interpol for various mob-related murders, world-wide.” “You don’t say, Chief.” “You idiots might have actually done something almost right for once…”

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Mopper and Gusto looked at each other and shrugged. “Thanks, Chief.” “So where’s Archipelligo?” They all turned toward the potted plant. “Let me go or Walterhaus dies!”

Archipelligo had taken the opportunity to grab Bernardo by the throat, lifting him to his feet in a chokehold. Bernardo was too dazed to do much about it at the time and it took a few seconds before people actually noticed and all eyes were on him. His first threat was met by stares of total disinterest and the drawing of weapons. “No, really! Let me go now or I’ll wring Walterhaus’ neck, right here and now!” There was a shuffling of feet and the police officers looked at each other, unsure of how to handle the situation, also somewhat afraid of the incredibly rich man, who could likely pay to have their houses demolished and turned into modern art, if he really wanted. “Let him go, you twat.” Archipelligo looked around, scanning the crowd looking for whoever said the words. “What?” Ching moved to the forefront of the cops encircling him and he backed away. “Keep that man away from me!” Bernardo turned his head in Archipelligo’s grip. “Sir, I think you’ve done just about enough for one day.” “Shut up, you asshole! You’ve ruined everything!” Any other thoughts from Archipelligo were silenced by Bernardo, grabbing the man by the balls. Desmond Archipelligo wilted under the pain and collapsed to his knees, quickly surrounded by police, cuffing him like a common criminal. Bernardo looked the man in the face as he was dragged to his feet, woozy, and frowned at the sight. “Have some dignity, would you, Desmond? I hate to have to use such brute tactics, but behavior like yours leaves me no choice… Holding me hostage? I never! I thought you fancied yourself an aristocrat of modern society. Scoundrel! First you exploit miniscule beings for monetary gain and then you try to use me as a pawn to make your escape? Absolutely scandalous. A toaster oven would have more class than you. I hope they

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do horrible things to you in that jail of yours… Though I might be inclined to recommend you for Dr. Lombardo’s Institute, instead. I think you’d have much to learn from the denizens there, Desmond…” “You bastard! I’ll get you for this!” “This side of you is vastly disturbing and unfortunate, Mr. Archipelligo. I fear that you are not the man I thought you were. Any respect I once possessed is diminished.” “Daddy?” The voice came from behind everyone, all eyes turning to the young woman winding her way through the broken front door and the crowd of police officers and men being arrested or toted away on stretchers to where Bernardo and Desmond Archipelligo stood. “Daddy? What’s going on here?” Bernardo’s eyes opened wide in shock. “Miss Archipelligo, I presume?” The beautiful young woman’s eyes scanned the room, unable to take in or comprehend all that was going on. “Um… Yes. Or, I should say, I was.” “What?” Bernardo and Desmond said the word as one. A young Hispanic man walked up beside Louissa, taking her hand. “I’m sorry… I didn’t catch your name.” Louissa looked the dirty goggle-wearing man up and down. Bernardo bowed. “Bernardo Walterhaus, at your service. I’m the detective that was looking for you after your disappearance.” “Disappearance? Daddy, did you do all this?” She stared, gape-mouthed at her father, who looked just as confused as her. “I didn’t disappear anywhere. I just left for a few days… Pepé and I eloped. So, as I said, I’m no longer Miss Archipelligo. I’m Mrs. Louissa Blackwell.” Desmond strained against the grip of the officers holding him. “You dirty wetback! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to rip your fucking heart out!” Louissa slapped her father. “Daddy! Get it under control, you old bigoted asshole!” She attempted to collect herself and smiled at Bernardo. “I’m sorry… Mr. Walterhaus? Yes, my father and I never saw eye to eye on people of… a lower class than ourselves. He seems to think that the poor are thugs and low-lives. I, on the other hand, keep trying to help my fellow man, though he does his best to stop me…”

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“Listen to all that crazy, liberal horseshit they’ve been teaching her at that private school! They might as well name Karl Marx as the dean of the college!” Everyone ignored the man’s ranting. “So, you were never missing? You just… skipped town and got married?” “Yes, Pepé and I went to elope before my father could stop it somehow… But no one is telling me why my father is in handcuffs.” “Well, Louissa…” Bernardo laid his dirty hand gently on her shoulder and stepped away from her frothing, angry father. “Your father had the bad sense as to get himself involved with gnome slavery. He participated in enslaving a tiny race of peoples, so that he might help a criminal liquidate their gold and launder the money through his company.” Louissa was incredulous. “Gnomes?” Chief Pulatso stepped up. “Ma’am, we’ve all seen them with our own eyes, believe it or not. Little people, pointy hats. They’re all there, living in Mount Oberwalz and, it seems, your father had them locked in chains, mining gold.” “Daddy!” Fuming, Louissa grabbed her father by the collar and started shaking him. “I’ll get you!” Desmond screamed. “I’ll get you all for this!” “Well, that’s another mystery solved!” Bernardo pointed his finger in the air in a pose of triumph. “The mystery of the Archipelligo kidnapping has been concluded and we stopped both a plot to blow up City Hall and a ring of gnome slavers to boot, bringing all the culprits to justice and even getting to wear a polar bear costume! Ching, it looks like another job well-done for the world’s greatest detective!” The room was silent for a moment, except for the soft weeping of the wounded, the squawk of police radios, and the rolling of a gurney. The dirty Asian chauffeur smiled at his dusty master. “Vely gud, suh.” “Now, Ching, we must find a diner, post haste!” Gusto looked at Mopper, arm being bandaged. “I could go for a burger.” “Indeed, my friends! I owe you all dinner after this harrowing excursion… And your gunshot wound, Mopper!” Mopper shrugged. “It’s what I do, Bernardo.” Ching, Mopper, Gusto, and Sanchez gathered around Bernardo, smiling. “Then let’s be off! To adventure, intrigue, and a hearty helping of meaty delight! The only recipe which 201

will sate the desires of conquering heroes and heroic purveyors of the right! To a feast and new adventures, my friends!” Exiting through the front door, the five men packed into the heavily-abused sedan, backed out over the wreckage of the stone urn, and drove away to find a large dinner, clean clothes, and another mystery to solve.

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About The Author

Ryan Speck is a writer (which you can probably tell if you just read this whole damned book; unless you didn’t like it, in which case you may disagree with the assertion), hailing from Georgia but now residing in Seattle, Washington. At an early age, he decided that writing was for him, as it allowed him to avoid real work. Unfortunately, it also helps him to avoid real pay, something he hopes to rectify someday. Despite whatever serious ideas he may have, Ryan spends most of his time writing whimsical tales about bad people doing bad things to each other in slightly humorous and generally surreal ways. Over the years, he has written for several underground print and internet music publications and spends much of his time in the company of his girlfriend, his four cats, and his computers. If you didn’t already know that and you’re still reading all this, then you are a special and wonderful kind of person, surely one of the greatest beings to ever walk this pitiful stone, the Earth. Now give a copy to each of your friends.